


Talking To The Moon

by kaijuvenom



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Agender Weyoun, Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Procedures, Other, Possible Additional Characters To Be Added, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Trans Garak, Weyoun talks too much, a burn so slow jane austen has blue balls, as of rn the chapter count is a signifier of how many chapters ive written already, but that absolutely does not mean its done, centered around Weyoun and Damar, established Garashir, i do not know how many chapters this will be, literally such a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: Weyoun Eight ends up a little... wrong. Different than he was supposed to be. He assumes it's simply a problem in his genetic coding, but it turns out to be something much more. He struggles to cope with what he previously believed were feelings impossible for him to have--feelings like love and real happiness. It's hard to find time to learn about your emotions when the people you worship as Gods have started a war that's killed millions, you don't understand what the hell gender is, and to top it all off, the person you're in love with has decided to stupidly risk his entire career and life because he was worried about you.
Relationships: Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Ezri Dax/Kira Nerys, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Mentioned Past Jadzia Dax/Kira Nerys
Comments: 32
Kudos: 55





	1. All Of These Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Weyoun Eight has a crisis, gets beat up, and then has another, longer, crisis.

Weyoun Eight had been supposed to be the same as Weyoun Seven, but there were a few key differences. First of all, he was now aware of what _embarrassment_ felt like (not that he hadn’t died an embarrassing death or two in the past), and second of all, he would now like to submit a definitive ranking of his least favorite Starfleet officers. Worf was now first, the man couldn’t take a joke. Third and finally, he was tired. Tired of the war, perhaps, dying for a cause he wasn’t even sure he believed in, of course he believed in the Founders and this _was_ their cause, he shouldn’t question it, but here he was. 

He was activated hours after his predecessor was killed and made his way back to Cardassia Prime, but he already felt defective. Damar had spoken once, he’d been drinking heavily at the time, about the state of Cardassia. Weyoun had at that point dismissed it as the drunken whining of a Cardassian who was in too far over his head when it came to running a government, but he couldn’t help but notice the way Cardassia looked now.

The people walking by him stared at the ground, shuffling their feet, they spoke in hushed tones and scurried out of the way of Jem’Hadar soldiers before they could get yelled at for some mundane and unimportant reason. Weyoun took to doing the same, not wanting to look at the devastating reality of what his Gods’ plan had done. Not wanting to look at what _he’d_ been complicit in, what he’d participated in, to appease the Founders. 

_There isn’t one family on Cardassia who hasn’t lost someone in this war,_ Damar had said. Weyoun had told him those sacrifices wouldn’t be in vain. He’d believed it then. He wasn’t sure if he did now. When would it end? When the Federation surrendered? Cardassia wasn’t a member of the Federation, Cardassians weren’t their enemies, and yet they were suffering just as much. He tried to push these feelings aside, he had a job to do and that job was to see to the Founder’s every wish. It had nothing to do with his feelings. 

Damar turned towards him and laughed when he entered, which, to be frank, felt like the least Weyoun deserved. 

“Missed you, too,” Weyoun said rather hollowly, his words feeling far away and distant from his body. Damar didn’t seem to have expected that response, but he shrugged it off, pouring two glasses of kanar and holding one out to Weyoun from his position at his desk.

“Here. Let’s drink to Weyoun Seven,” he said, and he didn’t even hold the glass out long enough for Weyoun to take, setting it back down on the table. Weyoun had never once taken him up on an offer of kanar, it was both a waste of time and resources. He couldn’t even get drunk for more than a few minutes at a time, what could be the point?

Now, however, he was beginning to see the appeal. He picked up the glass and examined it. “When will the prisoners be executed?” He asked softly, staring into the kanar. It was such an unnatural color for a drink, he found it fascinating. 

“When the trial is completed. Legal protocol must be observed,” Damar said blandly, as if _legal protocol_ meant anything. Cardassian citizens were being executed on the streets by the Jem’Hadar and they weren’t given trials. 

Weyoun once again shook those thoughts from his mind. _“When?”_ He repeated.

Damar sighed. “The execution is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at fourteen-hundred hours.”

Weyoun took four steps around Damar, sitting down in the chair across from him. “Have they agreed to cooperate?” 

“No.” He paused, another smile growing on his face. “Maybe you should talk to Worf again.” Weyoun rolled his eyes as Damar laughed, and while he was loath to admit it, a small smile formed on his face. It wasn’t his fault Damar’s laughter seemed to be infectious.

“I won’t drink to Weyoun Seven,” he said, causing Damar to look up at him. “Anyone can make another me. There are five more of me in the cloning facility right now, waiting to be activated. The Weyoun line has existed for hundreds of years, and it’s replaceable.” 

Damar looked like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it, staying quiet as he watched Weyoun with appraising eyes. 

“I’ll drink to Dax,” Weyoun finished, taking a long drink of the kanar. He felt it coat his throat as it went down, he hated the texture of it, and even its flavor. He could barely taste it as he drank it, but it left an aftertaste that made him want to wash his mouth out with sulfuric acid. 

“Dax?” Damar repeated after several long seconds. 

Weyoun took another drink before setting the glass back on the table. “Dax.” He closed his eyes. “Eight lifetimes, four hundred years of achievements, memories, families, friends. Feelings.” _Things I’ll never have._ “And it’s all going to end. Tomorrow afternoon at fourteen-hundred hours.”

The silence stretched onward, Weyoun closed his eyes and basked in it, trying to ignore this crushing feeling of regret washing over him. Regret and great sadness over something that hadn’t even happened yet. Regret over things that _had_ happened. He thought again of the Cardassians, feeling unsafe in their own homes, hiding from the Dominion and cowering in fear as the Jem’Hadar walked past. 

“It doesn’t have to,” Damar said.

Weyoun looked up at him. He seemed like he was deliberately looking away from Weyoun’s eyes. 

“I don’t know what you’re on about, but-”

Damar cut him off. “They could escape.” His voice was lower than a whisper, if Weyoun hadn’t been a Vorta he wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

“Escape?” Weyoun echoed just as quietly. 

“There are two guards outside their cell. A Klingon alone could easily incapacitate them.”

“The door has an automated, self replicating locking mechanism, some of the most advanced technology in the Dominion. They could never get it unlocked. Even if they could, it wouldn’t stay that way long enough for the door to open.”

“Nearly four hundred years of life skills, you said it yourself. I’m sure Dax could get it,” Damar argued, and Weyoun had to concede that point.

“Although not in time. Perhaps in a week, or a month. Not before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Stranger things have happened,’ Damar said, and he looked back into Weyoun’s eyes. 

They stared at each other for several long moments, until Weyoun reached forward and grabbed his glass again, tipping it up and draining it of kanar. He stood up and turned away from Damar, looking out the window. He couldn’t see the state Cardassia was in from this high up, from here it looked as it always had. That made him angrier, for some reason.

His grip on the glass tightened, before he threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall. Damar jumped, Weyoun could see it out of the corner of his eye. He had no idea where that rage had come from, but throwing the glass hadn’t helped soothe it. If anything, it only added fuel to the fire. 

“I’m assigning two Jem’Hadar guards to replace the Cardassians in front of their cell,” he said, his voice shaking. “Jem’Hadar are replaceable. Cardassians are not. If the prisoners manage to escape, it would be less of a loss if two Jem’Hadar soldiers were killed than two Cardassians.” 

When Damar didn’t say anything, Weyoun continued, still staring out the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’ll take the prisoners to their execution.” He turned back to Damar. “At fourteen hundred hours. Don’t forget a weapon.”

Damar stared at him, as if he didn’t believe what Weyoun was saying. “Is this a test?” He asked.

Weyoun considered the question, tilting his head. “It is. For both of us. And I’m choosing to end it before either of us fail any more than we already have.”

“If this is a test,” Damar began, taking a long breath before standing up, “I am past the point of caring. I’d rather die in defiance of the Dominion than spend one more minute plotting the downfall of my people.”

“I believe you,” Weyoun said, meeting his direct eye contact. “Fourteen-hundred hours.”

“Fourteen-hundred hours,” Damar agreed, and with that, he left the room. Weyoun watched the door slide shut behind him. He stayed still for several more seconds before removing his hands from behind his back and staring at them. They were shaking. They felt bloodied. Dirtied. 

He didn’t regret his decision yet.

And somehow, that was making him feel worse than if he did regret it.

********

He didn’t sleep at all that night; he stared. He lied on his bed and stared at the ceiling, not even thinking about anything. This could very well be his last night of living, if anyone caught on to what he and Damar would do. Had done already. The cards were already in their hands. All they had to do was play them. 

Instead of sleeping, Weyoun stared at the ceiling, his mind blank, counting the tiles. Once he counted them all, he started over. Over and over again. When the computer alerted him of the time, he ignored it, choosing not to get up. He kept counting tiles.

_The time is seven hundred hours._

He should be in the meeting room, he was supposed to talk to the Breen about… something or another. He couldn’t remember now. He kept counting. 

_The time is ten hundred hours_.

The Founder was expecting him at twelve hundred hours, for a report on the vaccine progression. It hadn’t progressed, he didn’t know why they insisted on keeping the daily appointments. The status wasn’t going to change by the Founder taking out her frustrations on Weyoun. And to be frank, Weyoun was getting rather tired of being the only one faced with her anger. Maybe he deserved it, in fact, he was certain he did, he deserved all of her anger and abuse but not for the reasons she thought. 

Getting up at eleven hundred hours was a struggle. Weyoun rolled his way off the bed and landed hard on the floor, his blanket falling down on top of him. He somehow managed to get his leg stuck in it and spent a good two minutes trying to untangle himself without causing harm to himself or his immediate surroundings. His hair was falling in his eyes in loose curls and he pushed it back with unnecessary force, trying to get it to stay up in its appropriate style with sheer willpower. This did not work and he gave up. 

“Computer, time,” he said, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Dark rings under his eyes stood out against pale skin. 

_The time is eleven hundred hours and forty minutes._

Twenty minutes. He should leave now, the Founder liked when he arrived at meetings early. He ignored the Jem’Hadar outside his door who followed him down the hall. If they had any thoughts on his state of exhaustion and disarray, they didn’t voice it. 

They waited outside as Weyoun entered the Founder’s room. 

They heard everything that happened. Every day was the same. The Founder would ask about the vaccine’s progression, the state of the war, Damar’s apparent reluctance to obey the Founder’s wishes. Any answer Weyoun gave only ever served to anger her more. Her anger, while Weyoun was sure (at least, he hoped) wasn’t directed towards him personally, she let it out on him. 

He didn’t used to mind it as much as he did now. Never before had he taken it personally, when she would strike him and, on bad days, change forms so her arms were shaped more like daggers or whips than any sort of humanoid being. Today was a bad day. Weyoun felt like he was dying by the time she dismissed him. The cuts felt deeper than they had ever been, blood soaking through his clothes. He was certain at least one rib was broken. Probably more. It was painful to breathe, He felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He stood up, extending his arms and lowering his head. It wasn’t like she was looking at him anyway, but he backed out of the room without raising his head nonetheless. 

The Jem’Hadar who had waited outside stared at him as he lowered his arms. Weyoun stared back, tears prickling at the edges of his vision. He knew, and Weyoun wondered if that was a look of pity that flashed across his face before he looked away again. It was _something._

“What time is it?” Weyoun asked, and speaking hurt even more than breathing. Blood welled up in his mouth and he swallowed it down. 

“Thirteen hundred hours and forty-six minutes,” the Jem’Hadar responded instantly.

Weyoun nodded in acknowledgement. Nodding made his entire body sway. He steadied himself on the wall. Fourteen minutes. He began to walk down the hall, the Jem’Hadar following him as he did. It took him a long time to even walk a few feet, let alone get to where he was trying to go. He stopped a good ways away from his goal, breathing heavily. The Jem’Hadar stopped with him, watching him. Like he was interesting somehow.

Weyoun opened his mouth to speak but only managed to cough. Blood spattered across the floor as he ducked down. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before leaning back against the wall. “Leave me,” he managed to say, waving his arm at the Jem’Hadar, who nodded in acknowledgement and began to walk away, back the way he came. 

“Wait,” he said. The Jem’Hadar stopped and turned back. “Give me your phaser,” Weyoun said, holding out his hand. The Jem’Hadar hesitated. _“Now.”_ Weyoun coughed again.

The Jem’Hadar nodded, placing the phaser in Weyoun’s outstretched hand before leaving again. Weyoun watched him until he turned a corner and vanished, then continued on his journey down the hall.

He heard the door to Worf and Ezri’s cell open a few meters away and broke into a run (it was more of a fast limp). 

Damar’s voice echoed through the hall, getting closer as Weyoun approached. 

“It’s time,” he said. 

Footsteps could be heard, and Weyoun managed to get to the end of the hall and turned the corner. Worf was leaning on Ezri as they walked, two Jem’Hadar soldiers directly behind them. Damar was still, behind the Jem’Hadar soldiers, staring down at the phaser in his hand. He looked as though he was getting prepared to aim it. 

Weyoun beat him to it, stepping silently out to the middle of the hall and shooting both the Jem’Hadar in quick succession. 

All three of them turned to him. Damar looked the most shocked out of the three, he likely hadn’t expected Weyoun to participate in helping two prisoners escape, even if he had agreed to look the other way. Weyoun was probably the most shocked, his hands shaking as adrenaline coursed through his body, numbing the pain he was in. 

A smile grew on his face. “I’ve always wanted to shoot a Jem’Hadar,” he said. And then he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weyoun passes out tally: I


	2. They Really Mean The World To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arsenic gets vortas drunk as hell for reasons i am unsure of. i just think its funny. and arsenic is my favorite element.

Weyoun woke up to intense pain and the ambient hum of a ship’s engine. He heard low voices speaking and recognized them as Worf and Ezri. A sinking feeling of realization flowed through him. He shouldn’t be here.

“I do not understand why the shapeshifters would create a being so weak,” Worf’s voice said, and it took Weyoun a while to realize he was talking about him. He supposed the judgement was accurate. 

“What do you mean?” Ezri asked, her voice soft. She sounded further away and distracted. She was probably piloting.  _ He shouldn’t be here. _

“If I were to genetically engineer a race of beings--which I would not--I would not make them so small and fragile.”

Weyoun managed what might be construed as a wheezing laugh at that, which alerted Worf of his consciousness.

“It’s better…” Weyoun began speaking to avoid both the pain and the crushing realization of what he’d done, trying to take a breath and finding it almost impossible, “for diplomacy… to be small, physically… unimposing,” he choked as he attempted to take another breath, “pretty,” he finished. His vision crept in until he could faintly make out the edges of a face--Ezri’s face, he was certain, now standing over him. She must have come over when they’d heard him wake up. 

“Try not to talk too much,” she said, and Weyoun flinched when he felt a hand touch his chest. “You’ll jostle the tube.”

“Tube?” Weyoun questioned, and then decided he didn’t want to know. Ezri’s hand moved away from his chest and he found he could breathe more easily. Whatever tube it was, it seemed to be helping. 

“I still do not see the appeal.” That was Worf’s voice again. “You would not get very far in diplomatic relations with Klingons.”

“Shush, Worf, let him rest.” 

“It’s alright,” Weyoun said. “Distracts me. And I guess it’s lucky then, that the Dominion never wanted… Klingon allies.”

Ezri didn’t respond, but she was probably rolling her eyes. He saw her step away out of the corner of his vision. 

There was silence. Almost unbearable silence. He should not be here. “Damar…” he began, before his voice broke off.

“He stayed on Cardassia,” Worf said.

And Weyoun felt even more alone than he ever had. Why was he here? Was this some sort of hostage situation, were they taking him as their prisoner? No, that couldn’t be right. He’d shot two Jem’Hadar soldiers. Betrayed the Dominion. So had Damar. Why wasn’t he here? He should be here, with Weyoun. He wouldn’t have left him alone, with someone who had killed him in a past life, he wouldn’t do that.

And maybe he hadn’t. A pang of some unidentifiable emotion struck Weyoun with such force he almost cried out. “Is he--”

“As far as I am aware, no one knows he helped us escape. I believe his plan is to say that we broke out of our cell while you were questioning us before our execution and we killed you and the Jem’Hadar guards.”

Weyoun nodded, shifting his position on the uncomfortable cot and making a pained noise. Why had Damar stayed? Why had he stayed but let Weyoun be taken by Ezri and Worf? Perhaps it was simply a good opportunity to get rid of him.

“Would you like a pain suppressor?” 

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. I’m immune. Unless you happen to have something arsenic-based.”

“Arsenic?” Ezri interrupted, sounding incredulous.

“I know it sounds odd, but…” he breathed shallowly, clenching his fist, “it has significant numbing effects on Vorta.”

“You’ll have to wait until we get to DS9, I don’t think Cardassian replicators can make arsenic.”

He nodded, trying to come up with the courage to ask the question that was still rolling around in his head, unanswered. “Why,” he began, his eyes fluttering shut, “why am I here?”

“Damar,” Worf answered simply. As if that explained anything.

“He cares about you,” Ezri added. “He said it wasn’t safe for you to stay on Cardassia, and judging from your injuries, he was right.”

Weyoun felt the inexplicable urge to cry. Damar didn’t care about him. Damar  _ hated  _ him, or at least he should. With the exception of Weyoun Six, he’d hated every iteration of Weyoun he’d met--but neither of them talked about what had occurred with Weyoun Six, it was best forgotten. 

“Were these from the Jem’Hadar? Did someone find out what you were planning and try to stop you?” Worf asked.

He shook his head. “No one knew.”

“Then what--”

“The Founder is… frustrated. She often takes out her frustrations on me.”

“She did this?” Worf asked. “You could have died. She broke four of you ribs and--”

“It’s the same every day, only today I didn’t have the time to patch myself up.” Weyoun frowned to himself as he tried to remember when it had started, why. His first memory of being physically punished by the Founder was when he’d been Weyoun Five. Right after they’d lost Deep Space Nine. At the time he’d believed he deserved it. Maybe he had. He was still fuzzy on that.

He remembered the day Weyoun Six had been cloned and every day, like clockwork, she would either verbally or physically abuse him. The mindset of Six was one he couldn’t get back into, no matter how hard he tried. He’d genuinely believed he deserved the pain, for the way he questioned the Founders, the way he sometimes thought the war was a mistake and wished it to be over. He deserved punishment for thinking those things. The Founders were Gods, after all. He lived only for them. If they needed a scapegoat, someone to blame when things went wrong, someone to take out their frustrations on, that was what he would be. And as he was abused for reasons out of his control, he would imagine it was because of his thoughts against the Founders. Somehow they knew what he was thinking and that was the real reason he was being punished.

There was silence as Weyoun considered this, wondering what could have snapped inside him so thoroughly that he was only now seeing his past actions with a clear head. He didn’t think it was a mistake in the cloning process, because he hadn’t felt this way when he’d been activated. It had only occurred… when he’d arrived back at Cardassia. That was it. That ache in his chest, that  _ exhaustion,  _ like everything he’d done was finally catching up to him. Like everything that had been done to  _ him  _ was finally being seen with clarity. 

“I am… sorry you were forced to live through such brutal treatment,” Worf suddenly said, breaking the quiet and making Weyoun jump. He hadn’t realized how lost in his thoughts he’d been.

“No kidding,” Ezri muttered. “It’s no wonder you defected.”

Another spike of pain shot through Weyoun’s body and he flinched. He hadn’t meant to defect. He hadn’t meant for things to get so out of hand. He’d planned only to look the other way while Damar let two unimportant prisoners escape before their execution. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “How much longer until we arrive?” He asked, trying to focus on the noise of the ship’s engine and not the fast beating of his heart, the way his breaths came out ragged and uneven. 

“Less than an hour now. We’ll have you beamed directly to the infirmary to make it easier.” 

The computer beeped and Worf stood to look at it. “We’re receiving a transmission from Cardassia.”

“Block it,” Ezris said instantly, and Worf nodded, then frowned. 

“It’s Damar.”

Weyoun tried to ignore the way his heartbeat somehow sped up even more. He was sure it had more to do with his worsening physical condition than Damar. 

_ “I need to speak with Weyoun.”  _ Damar’s voice reached Weyoun’s ears and this time his heart skipped a beat. It still had nothing to do with Damar.

_ “In private, if that’s possible.” _

Okay, that was unfair. Damar shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that while Weyoun was in such a weakened condition, he was having heart palpitations already. He tried to convince himself it was anxiety, perhaps even general worry over Damar’s safety, anger at him for sending him away but not coming with him. Nothing else.

Ezri and Worf glanced at each other before Ezri nodded and they left Weyoun alone.

“Hello,” Weyoun managed to say, trying to sit up to get a better view of the monitor.

Damar flinched at his obvious pain, like it was somehow his fault. “I should have done something sooner,” he said, a frown on his face.

“What’re you on about now?” Weyoun asked, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the pain. 

“I knew how the Founder… tortured you. But I said nothing because I didn’t like you. Weyoun Seven, that is. I thought perhaps you were getting what you deserved. You didn’t care about my people, I didn’t care about you.”

Weyoun managed a small smile. “It isn’t your fault. My predecessor was…” He trailed off.

“Not as likeable as Weyoun Six,” Damar finished for him. “Nor as likeable as you.”

The small smile on Weyoun’s face grew bigger. “You like me?” He asked with a hint of his usual teasing tone.

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late,” Weyoun responded and then gasped in pain, his hand going to his chest and then away again when he felt blood on it, around some sort of tube that was, horrifically, partially inside his chest. He tried not to think about that. 

“You, ah, wanted to speak with me?” He prompted, keeping his eyes closed.

“Yes. I plan on leaving the Dominion officially, making an announcement once I’ve safely hidden myself and a group of allies. And I’d like to destroy their primary cloning facility on Rondac III.”

Weyoun groaned, he could barely think, to be honest. “Why are you telling me?” 

“Because that may make you the last Weyoun.”

The last Weyoun. The  _ only  _ Weyoun left. “I think I’d like that,” Weyoun managed to say. “Better get a move on, they’ll bring out Weyoun Nine faster than you can think.”

“Not yet they won’t, they don’t know you’re gone yet.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Was that all?” 

Damar hesitated for a moment, looked like he was about to say something else, but he thought better of it. “Yes. I wish you a speedy recovery, Weyoun.” He made to end the call.

“Wait,” Weyoun said suddenly. “I- will I see you again?” 

Damar gave him a soft smile, one that once again made Weyoun’s heart dance a jig. “I wish I could say I knew.”

“Damar, I-” He bit his lip, feeling rather sick all of a sudden.

“You should get some rest. Save your energy, and recover. I should go before they realize I’m not talking to one of the ships I sent out to look for the escapees.”

“Damar, wait, I-” He ended the transmission and Weyoun cut himself off. The urge to cry was welling up inside him again. 

By the time they were minutes away from Deep Space Nine, everyone seemed to have been informed of the arrival of Dax and Worf, along with a defecting and injured Vorta who had been beamed into the infirmary for emergency surgery. 

Weyoun couldn’t stop giggling as he lied on the operating table, because the image of Doctor Bashir’s face when he’d arrived deathly injured and asked to be injected with some arsenic before blacking out, was stuck in his mind and was now the funniest thing he’d ever seen. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Julian muttered, and Weyoun tried his best to, staring up at the bright light above the operating table. “Never have I had to perform this type of surgery on someone who’s  _ immune  _ to anesthetics. And uses  _ arsenic  _ to numb pain.”

Weyoun giggled again, feeling delirious. “Why are you even doing this? I almost killed your friends.”

“War criminals deserve as much medical treatment as everyone else. Besides, the way I hear it, you defected and saved their lives. In my book, that makes you a war  _ hero.” _

“You don’t think I might have gotten exactly what I deserve?”

Julian frowned at him, glancing up into his face before focusing his gaze back down to Weyoun’s chest. “You know, someone else once said that same thing to me. I'm going to tell you what I told him; no one deserves this.”

“Yes, well, they probably didn’t--” a surge of pain too strong to be numbed by the arsenic coursed through Weyoun’s body as Julian began knitting bones back together, “--didn’t betray their home and family and cause their deaths.”

For some reason, Julian seemed to find that amusing and he smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

“You seem to have some--interesting friends, Doctor Bashir.”

“Partner, actually.”

“Partner,” Weyoun repeated, closing his eyes to block out the light. “As in romantically?”

“Mhmm.”

Weyoun was quiet for a moment, letting his mind wander. “Are you in love?” He asked eventually, not wanting to stop talking and be forced to think about whatever Julian was doing inside his chest cavity. 

“I believe so,” Julian answered. Something began beeping rapidly, making them both jump.

“What is that?” Weyoun asked breathlessly. 

“Nothing, it’s… the medical scanner found something.”

“What do you mean? Am I dying?”

“No! No, you’re going to be fine. It’s...” 

Weyoun glanced over to see Doctor Bashir frowning at the computer screen.  _ “What?”  _ Weyoun repeated.

“Are you aware you have some sort of… termination implant in your brainstem?”

“Oh.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. All Vorta have them. It’s there for emergencies, in case we’re defective.”

“That’s horrible,” Julian said matter-of-factly. “Would you like me to remove it for you?” 

“You… can do that?” 

“Of course. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s small, it isn’t embedded too deeply.”

“Then yes. Yes, please.”

Julian nodded and continued to work on the rest of his injuries, using the dermal regenerator on the deep cuts on his back and legs once he was satisfied that he’d done enough to ensure proper healing of his ribs and lung (which had been punctured, which was why Ezri had put a tube in his chest on the way to DS9. 

“What does it feel like?” Weyoun asked, and Julian paused in his work, looking at him questioningly. “I mean being in love,” Weyoun clarified.

Julian seemed to consider the question, tilting his head. “I suppose it feels like… at first it feels like you can’t stop thinking about them. Have you ever had intrusive thoughts? Sudden, irrational thoughts that pop into your head unprompted, like, ‘I could kill you right now with this scalpel’,” Weyoun flinched away at that, “it’s a lot like that. Only all the intrusive thoughts are about your partner. It’s terribly distracting.”

“And… what about later?” Weyoun asked.

“Later, it’s… more muted, I suppose. It’s getting used to someone. Seeing them when you have dinner together, expecting them to be there when you come home from work, feeling like you can look at them and know what they’re thinking, like you know what they need and you want to provide it for them.”

“Hmm,” was all Weyoun found he could say in response to that.  He wasn’t sure what happened after that because he passed out from pain when Julian began removing the implant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weyoun passes out tally: III


	3. Don't Make Me Out To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im so depression you guys are lucky ive pre-written eight chapters of this because i have negative motivation to write rn anyway uhhhhh (insert summary here preceded by a witty and possibly self-deprecating joke)

When Weyoun woke up again, it was dark in the infirmary and he was, apparently, alone. His whole body felt sore and tingly, like he’d been drop-kicked off a very high balcony and left there for several days, and his mouth tasted of soap. The aftereffects of ingesting too much arsenic. He felt terribly weak and frail as he attempted to sit up, pulling off blankets and managing to get his feet on the floor. 

He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he didn’t want to stay in the infirmary any longer. Weyoun Five had spent a lot of time investigating Deep Space Nine back when the Dominion had occupied it and had found quite a few different places good for hiding, plotting, sneaking, eavesdropping, and, most often, moping and sulking. Jake Sisko had been the only one who ever seemed capable of finding him in every hiding place he’d ever snuck into, and it wasn’t even on purpose. Jake and Weyoun happened to share a mutual liking for finding good places to mope and sulk in away from prying eyes. 

Some of his best hiding places were above the Promenade, on top of what were impossible-to-reach (even for Jake) bulkheads he could curl up on as he watched the people far, far below him, going about their lives. While Jake had been unable to get up to said bulkheads due to not having Weyoun’s levels of lemur-like leaping and climbing skills, he always managed to spot him from the upper levels of the Promenade and wave good-naturedly. 

Even injured and in a great deal of pain, the climb up to the highest bulkheads was an easy one, and Weyoun scampered up to his new favorite, the one with the best view of both the Promenade and the window that looked out in the direction of Cardassia. Not that he could see the planet from DS9, but it was the principle of the thing. He knew it was somewhere there, far far out in space, and that meant Damar was out there. And that was all he wanted to know. 

He curled up and wrapped his arms around his knees and stayed there, staring out towards Cardassia, as the artificial daylight began pouring in and shops began opening. He watched as Quark unlocked the doors to his bar and Morn was the first one in, spotted Garak bringing intricately dressed mannequins out to stand in front of his shop, a Bajoran handing out tea samples on the second floor. He looked back out to Cardassia, thinking of Bashir’s words. 

Sudden, irrational thoughts. Thinking about someone completely unprompted, over and over again, wondering what they’d do if they were here, when you’d see him next, what it would feel like to have had the intimacy they’d once had again. Or rather, the intimacy Weyoun Six and Damar had. He was wishing for that again. It was a silly thing to wish for, he knew, Damar  _ had  _ to hate him, after everything Weyoun Seven had done, but he could still think about it.

“Hey,” a voice called, and Weyoun recognized it as Jake Sisko.

He turned and located Jake about ten feet below him, leaning over the railing and looking up at him from the top floor of the Promenade.

“Hello, Jake,” he said softly.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” he said. “Doctor Bashir said you  _ pulled a Garak.  _ That’s his turn of phrase for whenever someone leaves the infirmary too soon after a life-threatening surgery without telling anyone.”

“I can’t imagine Mr. Garak much likes that.”

Jake shrugged. “Probably not. But you know couples.”

As a matter of fact, Weyoun didn’t know couples. He knew nothing about love. He hadn’t even known Garak was Doctor Bashir’s partner. He chose not to respond. 

“I know better than to ask what’s wrong, but you should come down. My dad wants to talk to you. And it’s a matter of time before Odo manages to find you.”

“I can’t see Cardassia from down there,” Weyoun said, as if that made sense.

“You can’t see it from up there either.” 

“But I  _ know  _ it’s there,” Weyoun argued, curling himself up into an even tighter ball, his head resting on his knees.

“You’ll still know it’s there. If you come down, it’s not like you’ll forget Cardassia exists.” 

He did make a point, loathe as Weyoun was to admit it. But he didn’t want to leave his perch. It was comfortable. Even though he was still coming off his arsenic-induced high, which gave him a terrible migraine and random body aches, it was comfortable.

“I’ll come down,” he said. And he did, eventually. It took him a few minutes to find the energy to leap down from the bulkhead onto the Promenade railing, swinging his way onto the walkway. 

“My dad’s in his quarters. He’s been waiting for you.”

Weyoun nodded in response, making his way to the turbolift and directed it to take him to the habitat ring, to the level Sisko’s quarters were on. When he arrived in front of the door, he hesitated when he heard voices coming from inside. He recognized the first voice as Ezri, another as Sisko. There was a low grunt of annoyance that registered as very Worf to his ears. 

He wondered if they were talking about him. Weyoun considered eavesdropping a professional skill, something to practice and improve upon, like any other skill. It wasn’t like he could play an instrument, anyway. And he was good at eavesdropping. Especially if the people he was eavesdropping on were talking about him.

_ “They did not discuss anything except for the planned attack on the cloning facility. Which we now know was carried out.” _

_ “Why were they discussing it?”  _ That was Benjamin’s voice, low and even. 

_ “Legate Damar seemed to be asking permission. He wanted to be sure this Weyoun would want to potentially be the last of his line.” _

_ “I told you,”  _ Ezri’s voice interrupted before Benjamin could ask any more questions.  _ “He cares about Weyoun, that’s all. If they were planning something, he wouldn’t have destroyed that facility. And Weyoun wouldn’t have almost died getting to us.” _

_ “It has happened before,”  _ Benjamin said, seeming to agree with Ezri.  _ “You said this Weyoun was cloned while you were imprisoned. He could have mistakenly been given the same disposition as Weyoun Six.” _

_ “He certainly behaves differently than the first one we encountered during imprisonment.”  _ That was Worf again. 

_ “Is there anything else they discussed, Worf? Anything at all that might have implicated they have some bigger plan in the works?” _

An awkward silence followed.

_ “Worf?” _

_ “If I may… speak freely, captain. It seemed Legate Damar was concerned about Weyoun’s safety, and Weyoun seemed… emotional.” _

_ “Emotional?” _

_ “He asked if he would ever see Damar again. When Ezri and I came back in, he seemed to have been crying.” _

_ “... I see. Well, it seems we’ve covered anything. I say we trust them, for now of course.” _

_ “I trust Legate Damar more than I do Weyoun,”  _ Worf said, and Weyoun found his statement warranted.

_ “But Damar trusts Weyoun.”  _ That was Ezri again. Weyoun resisted the urge to correct her on that point.

_ “Still. We should not allow him this freedom. He shouldn’t be permitted to wander about the station and vanish.” _

_ “I agree.”  _ Benjamin’s voice sounded closer, like he was walking towards the door. Weyoun backed up before walking forward again, deliberately making his footsteps louder. The voices quieted.

Weyoun rang the door chime and waited a few seconds before the door slid open.

“Hello,” he said, rather numbly, trying for his usual smile and probably failing. 

Ezri smiled at him in greeting, then nudged Worf, who was sitting on the chair in the corner. “I was just leaving.”

Worf grunted in acknowledgement, getting up and following her out of the room. The door slid shut and Weyoun was left alone with Captain Sisko.

“I… apologize for running off,” he said slowly, trying to gauge Sisko’s reaction. “I suppose I needed some space. After everything that happened.”

“It’s understandable, but in the future, I would appreciate it if you would wear one of these, so we can locate you at all times.” He handed Weyoun a communicator, not Starfleet, but a Bajoran one. He examined it for a minute before pinning it onto his clothes. It was at that point he realized he was still wearing the bright purple and orange gown that was standard issue for surgery in the infirmary. He doubted it was something you were meant to wear out, and he began to feel awkward.

“Please, sit down,” Sisko said, gesturing to the chair Worf had been sitting at a few moments ago. 

Weyoun complied, resisting the urge to bring his legs up onto the chair and curl into a ball. Sisko sat at the couch next to him, watching him like he was a feral animal.

“Jake told me he found you on a bulkhead above the Promenade.”

Finding no reason to refute that statement, Weyoun shrugged.

“He said you were talking about wanting to see Cardassia.” 

Again, Weyoun shrugged.

“It’s odd, when most people come here, they look in the direction of the wormhole. I would think you would too, it is your home after all.”

He seemed to expect an answer now. 

“It isn’t anymore.”

“And Cardassia is?” Sisko asked.

“Not necessarily.” Weyoun had decided  _ home  _ was wherever Damar ended up. Right now, it was Cardassia. Soon, it could be nowhere. The afterlife. Whatever came when you died.

“I thought you should know that the Cardassian Liberation Front destroyed the cloning facility on Rondac III.”

Weyoun nodded mutely. 

“Legate Damar is alive and well, according to our most recent reports. The Dominion has yet to locate him.”

“They will. If not him, then his family. Parents, siblings…”

“Does he have children? Or a partner?” Sisko asked.

He shook his head no, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he whispered. “I should have been the one to stay. Damar should be here, not me.”

“Why?”

“Because-” Anger overflowed Weyoun, the same way it had when he had thrown the kanar glass. He dug his nails into his thighs so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if it drew blood. “Because  _ I’m  _ replaceable.  _ I  _ can die a hundred times and it wouldn’t  _ matter.  _ Damar… he  _ can’t  _ die. He can’t die.” Tears gathered in his eyes and he didn’t have the energy to keep them in. “I can’t do that to him. I can’t. After everything- everything I put him through, after everything  _ the Dominion  _ put him through, I can’t let him down again.”

“Again?” Sisko repeated, raising an eyebrow. 

“Weyoun Six…” he began, bringing his arm up to wipe his eyes, “he promised-- _ I  _ promised--that I would--I promised so many things I couldn’t keep, I promised I wouldn’t... and I let him down.”

“You haven’t let him down. As far as I can tell, you’ve done what he hoped you would.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Weyoun whispered. “I’m a diplomat, a glorified personal assistant, I don’t have any experience in  _ war.  _ I want to go back. I want to go back. I want to go back.” He repeated it like a mantra, as if he said it enough times, he’d be back to the way things were before, playing kotra with Damar and dancing around his feelings. 

“You can’t go back,” Sisko said, and his tone was harsh, it made Weyoun shrink back. “And not only because you wouldn’t be allowed, but because you  _ know _ you couldn’t.” He gestured to Weyoun. “Look at the state you're in. They flayed you within an inch of your life and that was  _ before  _ you defected.”

The anger came back again, like a tidal wave. Weyoun jumped up, throwing a punch at the chair and regretting it when his fist hit hard wood. “It doesn’t  _ matter!  _ Don’t you  _ see?  _ Can’t you see that what happens to me  _ doesn’t matter?  _ I’m an  _ object,  _ a  _ replaceable, unimportant, object _ and what happens to  _ me  _ couldn’t matter  _ less.  _ I don’t want to go back for me, I want to go back for  _ him.” _

“And what are you going to do to save him? Go back and beg the Founders to take your life instead, to let him live and continue fighting against them and in exchange they get to kill something they view as a replaceable object?”

Sisko’s points were irrefutable, and that did nothing to diminish Weyoun’s anger. 

“But he’s the only one who ever…”  _ The only one who ever treated me like a living being.  _ “I want… to be with him,” Weyoun whispered.

“And that's all the more reason to end this war quickly.”

He was right, Weyoun knew it, and the fight went out of him as easily as his legs giving away. Which was the next thing that happened.

He woke up in the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun ought to stop passing out, the author of this story is realizing it is the only thing he ever uses as a plot device to change scenes, and it’s starting to get inconvenient. But then again, the thought of Weyoun passing out like a Victorian dandy falling across a chaise lounge and proclaiming, ‘fetch the smelling salts!’ is quite funny.


	4. This Helpless Child Of Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i feel like because i didnt explicitly state in this chapter that garak is trans (which i might never Explicitly say im still not sure yet, it might just be in subtext) no one is going to pick up on what i, when i was writing it, thought were Very Obvious hints on his transness. but in case it isnt obvious: GARAK TRANS.  
> in the same vein: WEYOUN AGENDER.

“Good, you’re awake.”

“Doctor Bashir?” Weyoun asked, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright light of the infirmary.

“Now I can properly admonish you for leaving the infirmary without my permission.”

“Sorry,” Weyoun muttered, although he didn’t mean it. Julian didn’t seem to think he’d meant it either, because he rolled his eyes and went back to scanning him, checking for any problems Weyoun might’ve experienced from either leaping like a monkey around bulkheads or passing out face first onto a coffee table, which was what had happened. 

"You should be more careful,” Julian muttered, frowning, “it’s like you’re made of porcelain.”

Weyoun copied Julian’s frown, although for different reasons. “I am aware,” he said, watching as Julian ran a dermal regenerator across his arm. He was getting rather tired of people reminding him that the Founders had created him to be delicate and fragile. He didn’t _want_ to be delicate. Or fragile. Or weak. Or small. Or any other words that meant any or all of the previous descriptors combined.

“You know,” Julian said slowly, as if he was trying to come up with the best way to word what he was about to say, “you aren’t the only one who feels this way. Being created to suit someone else’s purpose and feeling like a fraud if you do anything but the purpose you were given.”

He’d forgotten; Doctor Bashir was genetically enhanced. He knew what it was like to feel like he was living outside his body, not quite feeling _himself_ no matter what he did because there was something so intrinsically wrong with him that it was built into his genetic code.

“And I know it’s not quite the same, but my parents used to treat me badly sometimes. They’d yell at me, sometimes they’d beat me, other times they’d ignore me for days or even weeks at a time. For the longest time, I thought I deserved it. Because they told me how much they _sacrificed_ to make me the way I am. As if it was my choice, as if I asked to be this way.”

Weyoun stared at the dermal regenerator even as Julian set it down on the table next to them. “It is the same,” he said eventually. “But with the added pleasure of not being allowed to hate your creators.”

Julian gave him a look Weyoun had grown used to over the past days, one of thinly veiled pity, before stepping away. “You’re free to leave. I’ve asked Garak to expect you sometime today, I thought you might want some clothes that aren’t your uniform or a hospital gown.”

“I’d like to burn both of them,” Weyoun answered honestly, sitting up. He paused before leaving the infirmary. “Thank you, Doctor Bashir.” He wasn’t sure if that _thank you_ was for the emotional or physical support. 

Garak’s shop wasn’t far from the infirmary, and it was blissfully void of customers. He began examining the racks of clothes, wondering what counted as _pretty_ or _fashionable._ He liked the textures of most of the fabrics, although he liked the sequins on some of them the best, he liked running his fingers across them and hearing the quiet scratch of them rubbing against each other. In fact, he was too focused on the noise of the sequins he didn’t even register Garak come in from the back room and say something to him, which made him jump almost a foot in the air when Garak spoke again, almost directly behind him. He spun around, removing his hand from the sequinned fabric he’d been examining as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Julian told me you’d be stopping by,” he said pleasantly, giving him a smile Weyoun knew all too well, that insincere customer service smile he gave at every diplomatic meeting he’d ever been to. 

“I hope that’s alright,” Weyoun said, throwing the customer service smile right back at Garak even if it hurt his face muscles to do so. 

“Of course, of course. Feel free to look around at your leisure. I’ll be right over here if you need me.” The subtext of his tone was _I’ll be right over there and so help me God if you come within five feet of me I will make you wish the Founder had killed you._

Weyoun chose to ignore the subtext. “How kind,” he said, turning away again and going back to looking through the clothes. He settled on something that was long and sparkly and it had a lot of fabric on it, and Weyoun was of the impression that more fabric equalled better clothes. “I want this,” he said, pulling it out by its hanger and running his hand across the fabric. It made a pleasant noise.

Garak glanced up from his sewing, pursing his lips as he set it down and came over to examine it. _“That,_ my dear friend,” he said _dear friend_ the same way someone might say _murderer,_ “is a Vulcan-style circa 2140 wedding dress.”

Those words meant nothing to Weyoun. “What’s a wedding dress?”

Garak made an offended noise, carefully plucking the aforementioned _wedding dress_ out of Weyoun’s hands and putting it back on the hanger. “It’s meant for special occasions.” 

“Oh.” He frowned. “Why?” 

“Because some things are meant for special occasions. Other things are not.” 

“What about this?” Weyoun asked, figuring Garak wouldn’t end up selling him the wedding dress. At least, not until a _special occasion_ for it came up, so he turned his attention to a lavender-colored thing he did not have a name for. He frowned at it, examining it carefully. It looked a bit like something he’d seen a Dosi wear, back when the Dominion had thought perhaps the Dosi could be valuable allies (they had since learned they were not). 

_“That,”_ Garak said, looking very proud of himself, “is a replica of an Earth dress from the year 1972, designed by Bob Mackie.”

So many words, and they all still meant nothing to Weyoun. “Is it a wedding dress?” He asked, tilting his head.

“No.”

“So I can have it?” he shifted the dress this way and that in the light, admiring the way it glimmered.

Garak hesitated, then took it from Weyoun and held it up. “I’ll have to shorten the length for you, take it in a bit, and the sleeves are too long as well.” He seemed to be calculating everything he’d need and Weyoun didn’t want to ruin the opportunity of getting such a sparkly outfit. He stayed quiet. “I’d stay out of Quark’s bar, you might get mistaken for a Dabo girl, but I’ll tailor it for you,” he decided, and Weyoun practically squealed in excitement. “On one condition. You pick out some other clothes, too. Clothes that _aren’t_ from this section,” he added, leading Weyoun out of the _formal wear_ section of his shop. 

“But these aren’t as shiny,” Weyoun complained. 

“And isn’t that a shame,” Garak muttered, watching as Weyoun picked up random articles of clothing and squinted at them, then abandoned them again, trying his best to figure out what went with what, which was hard when you don’t know a thing about aesthetics. 

Evidently, Garak also thought he was messing the whole thing up, because he shoved the lavender dress back in Weyoun’s hands. “Go in the dressing room, try that on and I can get the measurements to hem it. I’ll get everything else.” 

It took Weyoun a rather embarrassingly long time to figure out how to put on the dress, several times getting stuck because he’d put his arm or head through the wrong place. 

“Mr. Garak,” he called from inside the dressing room, “I’m afraid I’ve put it on wrong, I’m-- _oh. Oh,_ nevermind. It’s supposed to be like this, isn’t it?” The dress had two cutouts near the neck, far higher up than the cutouts on the clothes Weyoun had seen, for example, the Dabo girls in Quark’s bar wear. These cutouts exposed his entire collarbone and most of his shoulders. He didn’t have as much experience working with Humans as he did with Cardassians, which was why the appearance of his collarbones and shoulders had occurred to him as scandalous. Humans were much more obsessed with keeping their chests covered (or uncovered, as the case may be) and didn’t care much about whether or not anyone could see their collarbones. 

Aside from the initial shock of how revealing the dress was, at least from a Cardassian’s perspective, Weyoun decided he liked it. It was too long by a handful of centimeters at least, and the sleeves trailed halfway down his fingers, but other than that, he liked it. 

He stuck his head out from behind the curtain, glancing at Garak, who was sorting through a large stack of clothes and separating it into several other smaller piles. He cleared his throat awkwardly, wondering why he felt nervous.

“Does it look awful?” Weyoun asked, stepping out from behind the curtain. 

Garak turned, examining him. “I’ll hem it, and I think you could look passable.” And to be honest, that was about the best compliment Weyoun could hope to get from Garak.

There had been a question on the tip of his tongue since the moment he’d arrived in Garak’s shop. It had seemed too awkward to ask, though, and Weyoun had yet to bring it up. However, as Garak took his measurements and began pinning up the dress, Weyoun found himself growing very bored very quickly. He supposed he had nothing to lose by asking it, anyway.

“Mr. Garak,” he began, “I’ve been wondering. There are some words that don’t translate from my language into Federation Standard, I’m sure you understand the sentiment. And I was… wondering if perhaps you could clarify something for me.”

Garak made a small noise to signal Weyoun could go on, kneeling down to start pinning up the bottom of the dress. 

“I… well, I think it has something to do with _gender,”_ he said, and the word was hard to say, the letter _g_ didn’t exist in the Vorta language and it still continued to throw him off and he often ended up mispronouncing things (mixing up hard _g's_ and soft _g's_ and occasionally being laughed at for it, he still got Garak's name wrong sometimes), and nor did any sort of equivalency or translation for the word _gender._ He was still unclear on what it was, but the brief ways he’d heard it described in passing, by Humans, as they seemed the most open to discussing it, it was more an abstract concept than a word with a solid meaning. Humans talked about it more like it was a feeling, but Cardassians often used that same word to define physical characteristics to each other. But sometimes it was a feeling for them, too. Altogether, it was confusing. 

“What about it?” Garak asked, glancing up briefly.

“It’s a concept I’m not familiar with, all Vorta, we are all the same. The Founders were all the same, and when they perfected us, they made all of us all the same. And I suppose I was wondering… are these clothes for a specific _gender_ to wear? Because I am aware that in some cultures, there seem to be differences in appearance and behavior. Like Cardassian _women_ are more likely to be scientists, for example.” In all of Weyoun's diplomatic meetings and hundreds of years of life, gender was still a concept that evaded him. The Vorta were made to be attractive or otherwise suited for diplomatic relations with a specific species, and most species in the Gamma Quadrant didn't have a concept of gender either.

If clothes were for specific genders, Weyoun supposed he would have a hard time finding some, because he didn’t have one. Maybe that was something he could get. He frowned. Was gender something one could _get?_ He didn’t think so. He imagined walking into a shop on the Promenade and saying _I’d like one gender, please, whichever one you have,_ wouldn’t result in anything but strange looks. In the past, not having a gender had never posed a problem for him, and perhaps that was because the Vorta language didn’t have a single gendered term, nor did they have differentiating pronouns, and the Universal Translator switched everything anyone said to him into terms he could understand.

Garak frowned, and Weyoun thought perhaps he’d said something rude. Garak looked almost uncomfortable at the topic. “I make my clothes for whoever wants to buy them.”

“Ah. I see.” He didn’t see, he still didn’t understand the whole concept, but he chose to leave it at that, figuring it didn’t matter anyway. 

“I think you’ll find you could wear whatever you’d like and wouldn’t get a second glance, especially not around here,” Garak shrugged, standing back up and admiring his work. “Change back now, I’ll have your new clothes tailored by tomorrow, I’ll send them to your quarters. The dress may take some extra time.”

Weyoun nodded, heading back behind the curtain of the dressing room and examining the dress in the mirror. He didn’t know if it was pretty or not, but he decided he liked it. 

“You said I could wear whatever I wanted and no one would give me a second look, but you also said to stay away from the Dabo tables,” Weyoun said as he realized it, frowning to himself as he carefully changed out of the dress so as not to jostle the pins. Perhaps Garak was trying to confuse him. 

“And I stand by that. I meant that clothes like that on someone like you might, well, draw some different attention in an environment like Quark’s bar. Attention I’m not sure you’d enjoy if you weren’t being paid for it. In fact, I don’t think the Dabo girls much like it either and they do get paid for it.”

“What sort of attention?” Weyoun asked as he exited the dressing room, once again dressed in the hospital gown he was really starting to dislike. He tilted his head in that way Damar had always made fun of him for, saying he looked like a _wompat,_ which Weyoun had later found out was a type of small mammal Cardassians kept as pets.

Garak waved his hand as if to bat away the question. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

 _“Oh.”_ That type of attention. Weyoun wasn’t sure why he hadn’t picked up on that subtext sooner. Weyoun Seven would have taken one look at the dress and known exactly what it could be worn for. He was still getting used to a new, differently organized and confused brain. It happened when a Vorta was cloned; there was a period of adjustment before all their past lives shifted back into place and they managed to sort everything out. He wondered what Damar would think of the dress. Then he stopped wondering before his thoughts could go any further. 

“Can I do anything else for you?” Garak asked pleasantly.

“No, that’s… that’s all. Thank you, Mr. Garak.” He tried for a genuine smile, but he wasn’t sure it worked out. He wasn’t good at genuine smiles. They didn’t teach sincerity in the Dominion. Evidently, they didn't teach sincerity on Cardassia either, because Garak's smile was even less convincing than his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> following up from the summary, i considered having a moment where weyoun starts figuring out gendered pronouns are a Thing That Exist (since in my idea of Vorta culture, they dont) and maybe he would ask to be referred to as a neutral pronouns like they or another form of neopronoun but then i was like! hey! you can be agender and have 'gendered pronouns'! so I was like, fuck it, agender weyoun, pronouns he/him. and thats that. i dont think he would mind being referred to by other pronouns, but i do think he wouldn't like being called male or female, or even nonbinary. i think he simply Doesn't Have A Gender and yes mayhaps the ds9 writers did this on accident but i read a lot into vorta culture and the way gender and sexuality works for them so yeah! ok end of my schpiel ty and goodnight


	5. Maybe Love Is What I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *weyoun voice* could a mentally unstable person do THIS?? *climbs up bulkheads and cries there*

Weyoun hadn’t even visited his quarters yet. Sisko had said he’d arranged them, but Weyoun had ended up spending his first two nights on DS9 in the infirmary, or rather, the bulkheads on the roof of the Promenade along with sporadic trips to the infirmary.

Despite Weyoun’s insistence that he didn’t need all of his new clothes fitted, Garak had insisted, so his things wouldn’t be ready for several days. All Weyoun had was something Garak had described as a _hoodie--_ which Weyoun thought was a very fun word--and a pair of sweatpants, which was a much less fun word. 

They were Doctor Bashir’s. He hadn’t asked Garak if Julian was aware that he’d given away his clothes to Weyoun, and now he was wondering if he should have. 

Once in his empty quarters, he examined the _hoodie,_ turning it inside-out and back the right way again, running his fingers across the lettering on the front of it. It was the Starfleet logo, with some words under it that Weyoun had never once seen while studying the dense legalese of Federation treaties and foreign policies, and hence he had no clue what they meant, and kept forgetting to search up their meaning in the database. He pulled the hoodie on over his head and was very satisfied by how warm it was. It was like being cocooned inside a pile of blankets. Yes, he was sure he looked like a fool considering he hadn’t seen another humanoid lifeform wearing something so baggy and strange on the Promenade, or, as Garak had phrased it, _casual,_ but it was comfortable. 

It was good for wearing as he hugged his knees, rocking back and forth and crying in his quarters, which was his entire schedule for the foreseeable future. Weyoun would like to think the repeated mental breakdowns were a result of him getting used to being a new Weyoun, but he couldn’t lie to himself that well. Losing control was a possibility that had always been hanging around the corner, but he’d never found the time in the day to dedicate to it before, not even when adjusting to becoming past Weyouns. Now it seemed he had nothing but time for such activities.

His days consisted of thinking about Damar, worrying about Damar, swinging from the bulkheads in the promenade, wondering if Damar was thinking about him, attending meetings about the war effort, actively dodging the apparently ‘mandatory’ psychiatry appointments we was supposed to have every day with Ezri, and attempting to remember whatever he could about the plans of the Dominion. 

It was a rare occasion when Weyoun was allowed in a war meeting, which only added to his feelings of uselessness, but (probably due in part to his breakdown in Sisko’s office) he was sometimes asked to sit in and provide input as long as nothing particularly confidential was discussed. 

In one meeting regarding the war effort, Weyoun was sitting at the table next to a Romulan whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember, barely paying attention, the discussions of power-dampening weapons and launching an offensive going in one ear and out the other, until a Starfleet Admiral said something that piqued his interest, something about Damar’s resistance movement. 

The Romulan next to him snorted derisively. “What’s left of them,” he said, and Weyoun was realizing how much he did not like him, “half his troops were killed in the assault on Rondac.”

Weyoun wasn’t allowed to communicate with Damar, something about it being a security issue, not that Damar had the time or ability to communicate with him whenever he pleased, and it was a momentous occasion whenever anyone received even a sliver of information about him. 

They began discussing how Damar might manage to succeed in his resistance group, Sisko talking about small-scale attacks and sabotage. Weyoun chose this time to interrupt.

“Damar is not experienced in that area. I don’t think many Cardassians are. Your best chance of his success is to bring him reinforcements who do have that experience.”

Sisko stared at him, and for a moment Weyoun thought he was going to be kicked out of the meeting. “I agree,” he said, and Weyoun released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, “who would you suggest?”

“Well,” Weyoun began, running calculations in his head, “as much as it pains me to put the Major through it, Kira has a plethora of experience when it comes to that sort of thing. Any Bajoran who was in the resistance movement would be a good bet.” It could be funny how ironic it was if they weren’t discussing how best not to lose a war where billions would be killed. 

He took Sisko’s silence as an invitation to keep talking. “Mr. Garak could be a good option as well, his contacts on Cardassia have plenty of information and are difficult to track down; I would know.” That time he did laugh, although it was a little strained. 

“I’ll talk to the Major,” Sisko said, nodding. “Dismissed.”

As the rest of the meeting attendees shuffled out, Weyoun smiled at them, watching as they left, until he was alone in the room with the Captain. 

“Is there something else?” He asked.

Weyoun’s smile faltered for a moment as he stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t suppose… you’d allow me on this mission.”

Sisko’s response to that before he waved his hand at Weyoun to dismiss him was, “we’ll see,” and for some reason, those words were the best thing Weyoun had ever heard. 

Until Sisko decided to make an addendum to that statement, holding up a hand. “Go to your appointments with Lieutenant Dax, and _then_ we’ll see.”

Weyoun crossed his arms like a petulant child, frowning at the floor. “I don’t need mental help.” 

“I never said you did.”

“That’s because it’s _implied,”_ Weyoun argued. 

“I have an appointment with Lieutenant Dax once a week. Every Starfleet Officer and Bajoran security worker has an appointment at _least_ every month, I require it.” Sisko took a step forward, and Weyoun looked up at him, chewing on the inside corner of his lip.

“Do you know why?”

Weyoun figured this was a rhetorical question, so he stayed quiet.

“Because I am responsible for the wellbeing of every humanoid life working on this station, and there is _nothing_ more important to me than their health and safety.”

“A kind sentiment, captain, but there is _nothing_ wrong with me. The Founders created my species with a remarkable ability to compartmentalize. None of my emotions, fears, or traumas--not that I _have_ any--will affect my ability to contribute to the war effort.”

He stared into Sisko’s eyes, refusing to back down, until Sisko finally blinked and looked away, turning around. “You’ll go to at _least_ one session, or I’ll lock you in the brig for failure to comply with station regulations.”

And despite Weyoun’s indignant sputtering, that seemed to be the final say in the matter.

********

While waiting for that _we’ll see_ to become a clear response or perhaps come up with a clever lie to get out of therapy, Weyoun made a friend, or at least, someone whom he would like to call a friend, although he wasn’t quite sure.

Her name was Keiko, and Weyoun had come across her on the Promenade where she’d been admiring Bajoran orchids. He’d paused to watch her, or rather, he’d paused to watch because she’d had a child with her, and Weyoun wasn’t familiar with children. He’d never been a child himself, nor had he ever met one. People didn’t tend to bring their children to diplomatic meetings. The closest he’d ever come was meeting Ziyal, although she had been much older than this child. 

The child in question seemed to find Weyoun as fascinating as he did her, because she dropped her mother’s arm to scamper over to Weyoun--not unlike the way Weyoun tended to climb onto bulkheads and the like.

“Hi,” she said, extending her arm. “I’m Molly.”

Weyoun blinked at her, before realizing he was probably being rude, and kneeling down to shake her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Molly. I’m Weyoun.” 

“Are you a lemur?” She asked immediately, leaning to the side. It took Weyoun a moment to realize she was staring, entranced, at his ears. 

“A… what?” Weyoun asked, bewildered. He wondered if a _lemur_ was some species of alien with similar facial features to him.

“A lemur!” Molly repeated, apparently very excited to have encountered someone who may or may not be whatever this mysterious _lemur_ was. She turned to her mother, who was having a conversation with the shop owner about different types of fungicides, and tugged on her sleeve until she got her attention. “Mom! Don’t his ears look like a lemur?” She asked, pointing to Weyoun, who was still just as bemused by this turn of events and kneeling on the floor as Molly ran back to him, pulling her mother with her. 

“Molly!” She scolded, although she sounded a bit amused--but Weyoun could only pick that up with his apparently lemur-like hearing. “How many times do we have to tell you, you _don’t_ point out a stranger’s differences. Didn’t we just have this conversation about Captain Boday?” 

“But his _head_ was _see-through,”_ Molly protested, as if having a see-through head was possibly the coolest thing imaginable. 

Weyoun stood up, brushing off his pants and smiling pleasantly at them. 

“I’m so sorry,” Molly’s mother said, addressing Weyoun, “she’s at that age where she can’t seem to resist staring at other species.” She laughed lightly. “You should’ve seen her when a crew of Tellarites came through. She was _fascinated.”_

“It’s quite alright. I’m Weyoun,” he said, extending his hand to her. She shook it, apparently quite relieved her daughter hadn’t offended an entire species of aliens. Perhaps that had happened before. 

“Keiko O'Brien,” she said. 

Weyoun nodded, recognizing the name. Or at least, recognizing the last name. He was fairly certain O’Brien was the Starfleet engineer on the station.

“I was just about to drop Molly off at school and head back to my quarters for a cup of tea, would you like to join me?” She asked.

Weyoun’s overly polite, be-nice-to-strangers smile was replaced by a genuine one. “I’d be delighted,” he agreed instantly. 

“Great, I’ll just-” she paused, glancing around, trying to locate Molly, who seemed to have run off again. “Molly?” She called, glancing around her.

Molly, who had run halfway down the Promenade while they hadn’t been looking, turned around and called back to her mother. “I can go to school by myself!” Before continuing her sprint down the Promenade. Keiko just shook her head, a small smile on her face. 

Keiko O’Brien’s quarters were nice, filled with plants and trinkets of all sorts, and Weyoun found himself very jealous of her trinket collection. He ran his fingers across the shelves that held objects with apparent significance to the O’Brien’s; books, musical instruments, wood carvings, and photographs of Molly and a younger child who must’ve been another of Keiko’s children. He paused at a framed photograph of Keiko, who was wearing a long, silky looking pink dress with a matching headdress of some kind. She was holding the arm of a man Weyoun believed to be the chief engineer O’Brien, while several other people he didn’t recognize stood behind them and to the side. 

“What is this?” He asked, as Keiko came back into the main room, holding a tray with some kind of food on it and a pot of tea. 

Keiko set down the tray on the dining table and came up behind Weyoun, looking over his shoulder.

“That,” Keiko said, a mix of emotions Weyoun couldn't identify in her voice, “is a picture of my husband and I at our wedding.”

Ah, there was that word _wedding_ again. So it was an event. No wonder Garak had been so confused when Weyoun had wanted to wear it. Weyoun didn’t even know what a wedding _was._ He hoped he hadn’t offended him. 

Instead of questioning what this _wedding_ event was, Weyoun focused on another unfamiliar word in that sentence. “Husband?” He asked, wrinkling his eyebrows. “Is that a familial term I am unaware of?” He glanced at Keiko, before focusing back on the picture, examining all the people in it.

“It’s a word a lot of cultures use to describe a romantic partner,” Keiko explained. “A wedding is a celebration where I,” she paused, pointing to the man whose arm was around her in the photograph, “and this man, Miles O’Brien, were legally wed, meaning we announced to all our friends and family that we are romantic partners for the rest of our lives,” she explained, and Weyoun was grateful her tone didn’t have that annoyed edge to it that Weyoun was so used to whenever he asked questions about cultures still alien to him. “Or at least, until we decide we aren’t right for each other, but that’s another explanation,” she added, frowning. “You don’t have anything like this in your societies?” She asked, to which Weyoun immediately shook his head.

“No, the Vorta… have no use for romantic relationships. It displeases the Founders. We aren’t made for such things.” The edge of bitterness in his own voice surprised him, and he set the picture frame back down, turning away from it. The Founders hated the Vorta to behave as solids, even if that was what they were, deliberately hiding information from them to keep them in the dark about it, specifically, intimate relationships, unless it was an absolutely necessary move for diplomacy. Which was very rare. Most Vorta, especially those who weren’t as high ranking as Weyoun, knew nothing about physical intimacy and had never experienced it. This, Weyoun was realizing, was just another way for the Founders to control them. 

“I see,” Keiko said, although her tone made it quite clear she didn’t see. “You know,” she said, leaning over and picking up the picture again, “see this person right here?” She pointed to a man in the photo who stood next to Keiko. He had a funny smile on his face, like he either wasn’t really happy or didn’t exactly know how to smile properly. His eyes glowed a bright shade of yellow. 

Weyoun nodded. 

“That’s Commander Data. He walked me down the aisle.” Weyoun wanted to ask what that meant, but he supposed that wasn’t the point of her words, so he chose to search the term up at a later date. “He’s an android,” she explained.

Weyoun tilted his head, curiosity filling him once again. 

“He’s one of my best friends. He introduced Miles and I to each other, actually.”

“How kind of him,” Weyoun said, not sure what else to add. 

“Yes, it was. I’m telling you this because he wasn’t created with emotions, or an ability to love or care for people, but he does anyway.”

Ah. That was the point. “How can he possibly have feelings if he’s an android?” 

Keiko shrugged, putting the picture back on the shelf and leading Weyoun over to the dining table, where the tea tray was probably getting cold. “That’s one of life’s mysteries, isn’t it? People constantly surprise each other.”

“I’m not a person,” Weyoun found himself arguing, “I’m a clone, a genetically perfected tool built for only one purpose.”

“By that logic, Commander Data isn’t a person either. And I’m afraid to say, but Data’s humanity was already put on trial, and he was determined to be a sentient, living, being, with human rights and an individual personality.”

“Was he,” Weyoun said, rather hollowly, Keiko’s words rolling around in his head. “Does he have a romantic partner?”

Keiko nodded, smiling at him as she sat down, pouring them both a cup of tea which was still, miraculously, steaming. “He does.”

“Do you think he’s in love with this person?” 

“I know he is.”

How intriguing. 

As Weyoun walked back to his quarters after a lovely afternoon of tea and biscuits, he wondered what the Founders would think of a form of artificial intelligence having human rights. They would probably be horrified.

The thought made him grin.

His grin quickly fell away when he arrived at his quarters to find Lieutenant Dax and Captain Sisko inside, having been waiting for him. He was, apparently, not going to be getting out of this therapy session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *keiko voice* my husband, whom i hate,


	6. And Not Your Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weyoun voice im a bad bitch i don’t need therapy

Once Captain Sisko seemed satisfied that Weyoun wouldn’t be making some sort of grand escape or coming up with an elaborate scheme, he left Dax and Weyoun alone in his quarters. 

“Would you care for something to eat or drink?” Weyoun asked pleasantly, although it was through a clenched jaw.

“No, thank you, Weyoun.” Ezri smiled at him in a kind way that set his teeth on edge. It wasn’t her fault, Weyoun liked Dax, not that he knew her well, but he liked her. It was more of an admiration, he supposed. She was someone he wished he could be, something he looked up to in perhaps a similar way he looked up to the Founders. 

It was in his nature to look for someone to worship, and he supposed some part of him had seen Ezri and respected her enough to allow himself to elevate her above anyone else on the station.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Exri asked, gesturing to the chair across from her.

Not wanting to annoy her, he obeyed, sitting down and staring at his lap.

There was silence for several long seconds before Ezri spoke again, her voice soft and relaxing. “You haven’t been as chatty lately. Is there a reason for that?”

“I don’t have anything to say,” Weyoun muttered, still refusing to look at her.

“That never stopped you before.”

She had a point there. Weyoun did love the sound of his own voice, prattling on endlessly about things no one would ever care about or even listen to was one of his favorite pastimes. 

“What  _ can  _ I say that hasn't already been established?” Weyoun snapped, looking up but still averting his eyes from Ezri’s face. “Everyone knows I spent seven lifetimes as a slave to the Founders, that I let them abuse me and torture me and  _ break me _ and I’m only now realizing what an absolute  _ waste  _ my existence has been. There isn’t much left.”

Ezri didn’t respond, she seemed to be waiting for Weyoun to continue, so he took a deep breath and did. 

“And I was  _ good  _ at it. I knew what I was doing. I may have sometimes broken more rules than I should have, but I was  _ good.  _ I was the Founder’s favorite Vorta, and they gave me privileges they didn’t  _ give  _ to anyone else. And perhaps that’s when it started.” 

“When what started?” Ezri prompted gently.

“They never treated me like a living being. I never  _ thought  _ of myself as a living being. They had my genetics so tangled and wrapped up I couldn’t see where their agendas ended and  _ I  _ began. I didn’t even know if I existed, as an individual.” Weyoun trailed off again, his ring finger tapping against his leg subconsciously.

“What changed that?”

“I don’t know. I thought it was a problem in the cloning facility. They snapped a cord somewhere or mixed up some code.” He didn’t think that anymore. Weyoun Seven, although he had never voiced the opinion, was of the belief that Damar had somehow corrupted Weyoun Six, put rebellious thoughts in his head, but he’d also known the rebellious thoughts had far preceded even meeting Damar for the first time, and that Seven had just been looking for someone to blame. 

“What do you think now?”

Weyoun stood, turning and examining his small collection of trinkets sitting on the shelf next to his bed. He missed his old trinkets, the ones he’d collected in Cardassia. They’d probably been thrown out. He picked up a small vase, it had been a present from Keiko that had contained a flower (which Weyoun had killed in record speed, Keiko had said he’d killed it even faster than Lieutenant Dax had ever managed to kill a plant). 

“I don’t think about it.”

“When was the first time you remember feeling real?”

Again, Weyoun tapped his finger against the shelf, staring down at the vase. “I don’t know. I suppose… when I was Weyoun Six. But the questioning itself didn’t start then, I had always--” he paused, his voice breaking. He’d very nearly admitted to something he’d sworn he would never tell, something he’d deny for the rest of his existence. 

“You always what?” Ezri prompted, and Weyoun felt his heartbeat speeding up, anxiety coursing through him and twisting his stomach into knots. 

He shook his head quickly, refusing to voice those words, because to say them would make them real, and maybe they  _ were  _ true, but that didn’t mean Weyoun had to think about it.

When Weyoun didn’t seem to be anxious to answer, Ezri changed tactics, standing and leaning against the wall to look at Weyoun, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you remember when you met Jadzia?” She asked.

“Of course I do,” Weyoun responded. “I was the fourth in my line, then. Lieutenant Dax—Jadzia—she was fascinating to me. I’d never met a Trill before her.”

“Jadzia wasn’t exactly a good representative of your average Trill.”

Weyoun managed a small smile at that, glancing at Ezri before looking away again. “That she was not.”

“She liked you,” Ezri said, “at least, at first. She, um… she thought you and her could’ve been friends, if things had been different.”

“Did she,” Weyoun said quietly, trying to recall any time he’d spent with Jadzia during that time that had made her impression of him be anything but contempt. He couldn’t remember what he could’ve done. “She laughed at Chief O’Brien’s joke about me.”

“I know. She- she had no idea what- how the Founders treated the Vorta. None of us did. When she learned later that you were all created to worship them, and that you had no choice, she would’ve apologized for it if—well, if we hadn’t been at war.”

Weyoun nodded silently. 

“So I guess I can apologize for her.”

“That isn’t necessary.” Weyoun swallowed, placing his hand back on the vase and running fingertips across the engraved patterns on the ceramic. “But thank you.”

“Of course. I just wish I—she—both of us, really, could’ve done more.  _ Could  _ do more.”

“When this war is over…” Weyoun began, and then trailed off, starting again. “When this war is over, you might be able to get your wish.”

“I hope I will.”

The words Weyoun had refused to say aloud still rolled through his brain, echoing and repeating themselves like they were taunting him. 

_ I had always questioned the Founders. It didn’t start with Weyoun Six.  _

He may have abandoned his Gods, but he had no intention of speaking his betrayal aloud. 

He shook them away, finally looking Ezri in the eyes. “Would you consider my accepting your apology in the form of an abbreviated therapy session?”

Ezri pursed her lips, glancing at the clock on Weyoun’s bedside table. “I promised Ben I would talk to you for a full hour. But… I never specified what we’d talk about.” SHe smiled at him, gesturing back to the chairs. “How about a game of chess?” 

To which Weyoun promptly agreed, even though he found chess to be fairly boring compared to most games, but he would likely tolerate anything to avoid more therapy. 

*********

“Mr. Garak,” Weyoun said from the corner of Odo’s office, where he’d been rifling through his drawers for contraband, “would this mission be considered a special enough occasion to wear that  _ wedding _ dress?” He continued looking through drawers, pulling out an odd-shaped crystal and examining it from every angle. When no one answered, he glanced up to see the entire company staring at him. He blinked. “No?” He knew perfectly well it wasn’t, but he had always enjoyed causing others discomfort for no reason. It was amusing.

“Ah… no,” Garak said, turning back to Major Kira and shaking his head. 

“A shame,” Weyoun commented, a smirk on his face, as he then went back to staring at the sparkling crystal. “Can I have this?” He asked, to which Odo responded by snatching the crystal from his hand and shoving it back in the drawer silently. He took that as a no as well. He’d steal it when they got back from this mission. Odo wouldn’t notice.

“Well, I’ll see you all in the morning,” Garak said, giving them his plastic smile before leaving. Weyoun left soon after, hurrying back to his quarters.

He began looking through the clothes Garak had taken nearly a week to hem and tailor to his measurements--the Dabo girl dress (as Weyoun had taken to calling it) still wasn’t finished, which was rather distressing to Weyoun as he was beginning to wonder if he would ever get to wear it before he died a horrible death by the hands of his former allies. 

Weyoun ended up spending most of the night on the Promenade once he’d arranged everything he’d need to take with him on the mission. He curled up on the ledge next to the window that looked out towards Cardassia and watched the stars.

They left at six hundred hours, and Weyoun watched as Garak and Julian said goodbye to each other. Garak seemed hesitant to show any form of physical affection, perhaps because he was near so many other people, but as he began to turn away, Julian said something and took his arm, wrapping himself around Garak and kissing him. He tilted his head as he watched them, fascinated with the way Garak’s tail wrapped around Julian’s leg like it had a mind of its own, before they pulled away from each other. Kira and Ezri were saying goodbye to each other as well, speaking across the room and even Weyoun could barely hear them—not that he was  _ trying  _ to eavesdrop (he was). 

“Kira, I- I want you to know that if anything happens to me, that- I love you,” Ezri was saying, and Weyoun watched as Kira’s eyes widened before she smiled, leaning forward.

“I love you, too, Ezri,” she said, and for a moment, Weyoun thought they were about to kiss, but it seemed Kira changed her mind at the last second and hugged her. Ezri’s face measured equal parts annoyance and resignation. It was intriguing to say the least, these mating rituals everyone seemed obsessed with, and even more intriguing how it seemed some people went out of their way to inconvenience themselves to get, as he’d once heard the phrase stated,  _ heartbroken.  _ He himself was no exception to this, seeing as it was what he was doing right at that moment. 

At that point, Odo leaned over and nudged him, making him jump.

“Let’s go. Leave them to their teary goodbyes,” he muttered, which Weyoun was reluctant to do, but he obeyed and followed Odo into the ship. He didn’t mind Odo, in fact, he found his presence reassuring. It was like a soothing reminder that his Gods were capable of good, that not all of them were vengeful and cruel. As soon as they were inside, he began bombarding Odo with questions.

“Are Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax romantically involved?” He asked.

Odo squinted at him, before grunting in a way that signified he’d rather talk about anything else. “They were, for a time.”

Weyoun tilted his head to the side. “What happened?”

“Jadzia died.”

“Ah,” Weyoun said, nodding. “And the rule against Trills continuing relationships from their past lives prevents them from continuing this relationship?” 

“I don’t think it’s that, to be frank. Lieutenant Dax, or rather the symbiote itself, doesn’t seem to care much about the rules.”

“Then what is it?” Weyoun asked. He couldn’t see a reason why they wouldn’t continue to pursue a relationship, it seemed like Major Kira and Dax had been given a brand new second chance, an opportunity for both of them to be as happy as they had been in the past. Or perhaps that was just Weyoun projecting. 

“I think they’re both under the impression that the other doesn’t share the same feelings of love, and they seem hesitant to discuss it. They’ve been dancing around each other ever since Lieutenant Dax came back.”

“Hm,” Weyoun said thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the console. How odd. He wondered if it was normal for that sort of thing to happen. Vorta didn’t get in relationships unless it was somehow helpful to the Founders, so there was never an issue over new clones being created and perhaps being different enough from their predecessors to have different feelings regarding their partners. Vorta weren’t supposed to have feelings at all, let alone worry about their feelings  _ changing.  _

In fact, as far as Weyoun was aware, the only Vorta who had ever even considered being in a romantic relationship had been Weyoun Six. The intricate memories of those emotions were vague and muddled, the Founders having removed everything that may have caused such a problem in Weyoun Six, but he did remember that warm, happy feeling of being able to look into Damar’s eyes and be seen as a  _ person,  _ a living, breathing, creature, and not another expendable pawn. He couldn’t see why anyone would want to give that up.

“What about Doctor Bashir? And Mr. Garak?” 

Odo grunted, then looked up from the Padd he’d picked up, squinting at him. “Why do you care about them?”

Shrugging, Weyoun sat down on the arm of a chair, swinging his legs. “I suppose I’m curious. Vorta don’t experience… that sort of relationship. If we do, it’s never sincere, only for political gain. And astronomically rare.” Weyoun himself had only engaged in that sort of behavior three times in all, not counting the not-quite-but-very-nearly that had occurred with Damar and Weyoun Six. 

_ “Never?  _ As in, you aren’t capable of it, or it’s forbidden?” 

“The Founders forbid it,” Weyoun admitted, feeling odd explaining the Founder’s rules to a Founder.

“And you all obey that?”

Weyoun looked at him sharply. “Of course. We obey the Founders in all things.”

“Not  _ all  _ things,” Odo said, turning away again.

“I am… defective,” Weyoun said slowly. 

“You’re a living being, you can’t be  _ defective.” _

Damar had said something similar to Weyoun Six once, although he’d said it with much more sincerity and kindness. 

“I was made in the Founder’s image, to serve them, but I defected. I don’t think there is another word to describe my actions.”

“Honorable?” Odo offered.

Weyoun scoffed. “I’m not a Klingon.” 

Their conversation ended there, when Kira and Garak deigned to show themselves and they were able to begin the journey to Damar’s base. 

The trip was a mostly silent one, they were unable to communicate with Damar due to not wanting to be detected, and Weyoun spent most of the hours hovering over Garak’s shoulder as he sewed. He was working on some sort of Bajoran prayer shawl, it had intricate patterns stitched into it and words written in ancient Bajoran text. Weyoun hadn’t been aware that Garak spoke Ancient Bajoran. Or had any understanding of it whatsoever. 

About halfway through the trip, they received a transmission from DS9, and Julian informed them Odo was carrying the disease the rest of the Founders had been infected with. Weyoun found this fascinating, if not a bit distressing. He would rather Odo didn’t die. Or perhaps that was just his genetics talking. Odo had never been kind to him, he doubted he would bother blinking an eye if Weyoun died. 

The mood sombered, and Weyoun decided he had just the thing to cheer everyone up.

“I’m sure you’re happy about seeing Ziyal again, Major,” he said, smiling at her. To his surprise, Kira’s face turned cold and she looked away.

“Ziyal is dead,” she said shortly. “You know that. Damar killed her when you withdrew from Deep Space Nine.”

Weyoun frowned. Had that been a secret? Had he not been supposed to tell anyone? He racked his brain, trying to remember. He couldn’t remember. “If Ziyal is dead, she has a very kind twin with the same name who lived in the basement of the Cardassian Central Command building.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Weyoun?” Kira asked, her voice laced with venom. 

“Well, I’m certain Gul Dukat asked for Damar to execute her for treason, but he faked her death and brought her to Cardassia Prime, and I assume he took her with him when he defected. I was under the impression that you knew.”

His words were met with silence, everyone in the ship was staring at him now, apparently all at a loss for words. Weyoun blinked at them, eyes wide.

The silence was broken when a monitor near Odo began beeping and he turned to face it.

“We’ve arrived at the beam-down coordinates Damar provided us with.”

“Good!” Weyoun exclaimed, grinning. “You can see her for yourself!”

No one answered him, they all shuffled past silently, and Weyoun, oblivious to whatever he’d done to upset them, shrugged to himself and followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weyoun and Ziyal friendship is something we deserved and in this essay i will—


	7. In And Out Of Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops you thought it was Ziyal time?? You thought it was reuniting with Damar time?? You Fool. You Absolute Buffoon. You Sweet Summer Babe Swaddled In The Cashmere Blanket Of Ignorance. I present to you what we in the writer’s business refer to as, “chicken shit cowardice”, AKA an entire chapter of flashback.

Dying in a transporter accident was an unpleasant feeling to say the least. Weyoun supposed it was underestimated how painful it was in order to assuage the lingering fears some had regarding transporters. Weyoun himself had never been disturbed by them, he supposed he was used to having his molecules scrambled and rearranged again in an order that may or may not be correct. 

Now, however, he understood the fear. It hurt like hell. It felt like he was being ripped apart by a blunt dagger and that dagger was on fire. And there was a constant screeching noise echoing in his ears. He couldn’t see a thing, just blinding yellow light followed by total darkness. It smelled like something was burning. It took him a moment to realize the thing that was burning was him. That was why it felt like he was on fire. Not that he could check to make sure, considering his eyes had probably melted out of his brain.

Somewhere around that time, when he was wondering if there was a word to describe agony squared , he ceased to exist. The next thing he was aware of was being activated in the pleasant purple glow of a cloning facility. Nothing hurt, although he did feel a bit… scrambled. It would wear off within a few days, he knew. 

Now, however, it was time for more important things. He smiled at the Vorta who had activated him—it was Kilana, and Weyoun wanted to pause to tell her how truly happy he was that she had happened to be in the Alpha Quadrant when the wormhole had sealed, but there wasn’t time, so he settled for a smile and an extremely brief hug—and followed the Jem’Hadar who’d been waiting for him to the beam up spot, ready to get back to his ship. He swallowed down the intense anxiety that washed over him as he began beaming up to the ship, memories of scorching pain flooding into his mind, and he released a relieved breath as soon as he was safe on the transporter pad, immediately getting off of it and preparing for departure back to Cardassia Prime. 

It was time for him to confront Damar. He was sure he’d done this—or at least, Weyoun Five would’ve been sure, but Weyoun Six felt… a little less sure. Again, he assumed it was the effect of being new. It would wear off, he told himself. 

********

_ It will wear off  _ seemed to be Weyoun’s mantra over the coming weeks.  _ It will wear off,  _ he told himself when Damar looked at him with genuine surprise upon being accused of sabotaging the transporter and Weyoun had felt bad about accusing him (as it would much later turn out, Damar had not been the one to sabotage the transporter, it had been a small group of Cardassians who worked under him, Damar had found out and covered it up, but he’d had no idea what they’d been planning until it was done). 

_ It will wear off,  _ Weyoun told himself when he felt pity for the Federation and Klingon troops he killed indiscriminately, and  _ it will wear off  _ when he reported the absence of progress on the vaccine to the Founder and he began praying to a God other than her to be saved from her wrath. He was never saved, and every day, her anger seemed to increase. 

_ It will wear off,  _ he told himself when he limped out of the meeting room wishing he could curse her name as he collapsed in his quarters, barely managing to heal himself with the dermal regenerator before losing consciousness. 

And what was more concerning, he told himself  _ it will wear off  _ when he looked at Damar and felt a rush of emotion he’d never experienced in all his lives. 

None of it wore off. It dragged on past the normal readjustment period for Vorta, and Weyoun was forced to come to the conclusion that he was defective. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t want to die. He knew that when he was cloned again, Weyoun Seven wouldn’t have this clarity about the war, the Founders would find some way to force it out of him. They had their ways. He wouldn’t feel so viscerally ill as he watched soldiers die for a cause he  _ knew  _ he didn’t believe in. But his genetic programming forced him to do  _ something.  _

And Damar was noticing. He was catching on that something was wrong with Weyoun Six and it would be a matter of days before Damar went to the Founder and asked for a replacement. A Weyoun that worked properly. Send back the broken one and get a proper Weyoun, free of charge. 

He was tired of being treated like a commodity. 

So, Weyoun Six supposed, he had nothing to lose. 

He went to Damar one night, bringing with him a bottle of kanar. Perhaps as a bribe, or a peace offering. Maybe a plea to make his death less painful than a transporter malfunction. 

Damar’s door was partially open to his quarters, like he’d either forgotten to lock them or was expecting company. Weyoun hoped it wasn’t that he was expecting company, or his pleas to be spared the pain of a torturous death would be cut short. He knocked on the wall to announce himself, sticking his head through the open sliver of doorway. Damar was at his desk, sorting through information on several Padds and glancing at his computer screen. He paused and turned upon hearing the knock.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Weyoun said softly, and usually that would have a sarcastic cadence to it, but this time he was sincere. 

Damar squinted at him, like he was trying to find the sarcasm in that statement, and when he came up empty, he gestured for Weyoun to come in. 

“What can I do for you, Weyoun?” His eyes traveled across Weyoun’s frame, pausing at the bottle of kanar, before looking back up into his eyes. 

Weyoun stepped the rest of the way into Damar’s quarters, letting the door slide closed behind him. “I…” he began, “I came to ask a favor,” he said, and held out the bottle. 

Damar took it hesitantly and set it on his desk.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I am defective.” He was starting to hate that word. “It is only a matter of time before you go to the Founders and they send for a replacement. I’ve come to ask that you…” he swallowed, eyes downcast to the floor, “save me from that embarrassment. Kill me in a way that isn’t painful, and don’t tell the Founders of my… failure.”

Damar stood up, and Weyoun let out a shaky breath, trying not to let his fear show as he stepped closer, until they were a few inches apart. Weyoun knew he was shaking, no matter how hard he tried to prevent it, his entire body was shaking like a leaf in an autumn wind. He didn’t want to die. A tear slipped down his cheek. So much for saving himself embarrassment. He doubted if Damar would ever give him a modicum of respect again. 

He felt a hand on his chin and he jumped, squeezing his eyes shut as his head was turned upwards. And he waited. 

And continued waiting. His eyes shut tight and tears still managing to sneak past his eyelids, waiting for Damar to kill him. 

It didn’t happen. Weyoun didn’t know how long he stood there, Damar’s hand on his chin, but it seemed to be hours. Years. He felt like he’d lived through six more lifetimes in those few seconds. Eventually, he opened his eyes. Damar was looking at him in a way Weyoun didn’t think anyone had ever looked at him before. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Damar said, and he lifted his other hand to wipe away Weyoun’s tears. “You’re a living being, not a commodity.” 

“Technically, I am both,” Weyoun breathed, and he felt his hand twitch with the sudden urge to touch Damar. He restrained himself. 

“No,” Damar said, and his voice was calm, certain. Enough to put Weyoun at ease for the moment. “You are a living being, and living beings have a free will. And if you wish to be deactivated, go to the Founder yourself, but the fact that you came to me instead says you don’t want to be.”

Weyoun should have left then, he should have left and gone to the Founder and begged for forgiveness, then asked permission to deactivate himself and be replaced. He didn’t do that. Instead, he stared into Damar’s eyes. Both of his hands were cupping Weyoun’s chin now, holding him like he was some sacred artifact and not a broken tool.

“What are you going to do?” Weyoun asked, his voice weak.

“I’m not going to do anything.” Damar removed his hands from Weyoun’s face, stepping back. 

Weyoun swallowed, his eyes flickering back down to the floor. “You could be executed for this. You’re disobeying the Founder’s wishes.”

“So are you,” Damar argued, although there was no malice behind it. “And I won’t tell if you won’t.” 

A small smile formed on Weyoun’s face. He felt safe for the first time in weeks. Possibly longer. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” He asked, feeling like he was pushing his luck but at the same time never wanting to be alone again.

“Of course not.”

“Thank you,” Weyoun whispered, and he slept on the couch at the end of Damar’s bed for the next few nights. 

_ It will wear off _ was soon a phrase long forgotten over the coming weeks, because not one of the things Weyoun had hoped would wear off ever did. He thought about Damar nearly every minute of the day, when he would see him next, and when he did see him, he would wonder if Damar thought about him as often as Weyoun did. 

They became almost friends. Weyoun would sometimes share a bottle of kanar with him (or rather, bring Damar a bottle and watch him drink it), Damar taught him to play kotra, and then they would stay up far too late talking, Weyoun asking a million questions about Cardassia and Damar doing his best to keep up with his lightning fast words. Occasionally Ziyal would join them, and Weyoun, who had blatantly ignored her while he had been Weyoun Five, grew to enjoy her company as Weyoun Six. She taught him about art, tried to explain the intricacies of aesthetics, and it was all lost on Weyoun, but she spoke with such passion it was worth listening to anyway. 

They never talked about the war, and they certainly never talked about the Founders. Sometimes Damar brought things on those topics up, and Weyoun adamantly ignored it and avoided the subject.

He knew this wouldn’t last, that at some point soon, the Founders would discover his sins, that Damar would tire of him, or Weyoun would find he couldn’t bear the strain of fighting a war he didn’t want to fight any longer. That knowledge only spurred him on to make even more questionable decisions. 

He was sitting in Damar’s quarters, as he often was nowadays, playing kotra, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention to the game. He was staring at Damar. Because he was realizing, for the first time in his life, that he was in love. So of course it was time for a questionable decision.

Never had Weyoun been the one to initiate physical intimacy with anyone—sure, he was curious, but he usually found the whole thing to be far more trouble than it was worth. Now, however, he was practically vibrating with the need to be closer to Damar, to touch him in a way that Weyoun had truly never thought of as special or significant before.

With Damar, it was different from any sort of… well,  _ seduction  _ seemed too incorrect of a word, but there wasn’t really anything else to describe it, Weyoun had ever attempted. He had limited experience with Cardassians, and most of it was involved in the best ways to turn them off—specifically one Cardassian in particular. 

Simply leaning forward over the table and pressing a kiss to Damar’s lips wouldn’t do well, it would make a potential rejection even more awkward and painful. It would be better to discuss his intentions first. Perhaps ask the question as a hypothetical, or even ask Damar if he thought Weyoun was attractive. Something that would ease into it instead of pushing them both in with no preparation. 

He went through this process the same way he would a diplomatic meeting, analyzing potential reactions to hypotheticals and coming up with ways to provide damage control if things went south. 

After debating with himself for a good five minutes over exactly what to say, he took his turn and then stared up at Damar as he examined the kotra board. 

“Do you think I’m attractive, Damar?” Weyoun asked, as lightly as he could.

Damar blinked at him, as if he didn’t fully understand the question. Which was ridiculous, because it had been very clear and Damar hadn’t even been drinking. 

“What?” He asked, the kotra board forgotten. 

“Well, as you know, Vorta don’t have… a sense of aesthetics. I often wonder whether or not I’m attractive from certain viewpoints. Yours, for example.” He paused to look down at his hands, picking at his nails. “Am I attractive, from the viewpoint of a Cardassian?”

“Are you asking me if  _ I  _ think you’re attractive, or if you match up to Cardassian beauty standards? Because those two questions have wildly different answers.”

“Then I suppose you can answer both,” Weyoun said, smiling at him. 

“By Cardassian beauty standards, you would be considered… not exactly unattractive, but  _ alien.  _ You are completely different from any other species we have encountered. I doubt you would be considered as a romantic partner for many Cardassians.” That, Weyoun figured, was Damar’s kind way of saying Weyoun was too waifish and delicate and  _ different  _ to be anything other than an interesting experiment in most Cardassian’s eyes. He didn’t know if Dukat had thought he was pretty, it had never occurred to Weyoun to ask. Perhaps because he didn’t care about Dukat’s opinion of him.

“And what about you, personally?” 

Damar shifted in his seat, looking away from Weyoun, over towards the unopened bottle of kanar that sat on his desk like he couldn’t get through this conversation without it.

“I think you’re… interesting to look at.”

At that, Weyoun had to laugh. He laughed for longer than was probably necessary, and every time he was close to stopping, he would catch sight of Damar’s rather mortified expression and lose his composure again. 

“Interesting! Interesting to look at!” Weyoun finally managed to stop his laughter long enough to speak. “That sounds like—that sounds like something  _ I  _ would say,  _ interesting to look at,”  _ he wheezed, covering his mouth with the back of his palm to quiet his laughter. 

“I’m—! I didn’t mean—I think you’re attractive! You’re aesthetically pleasing! What more do you want from me?”

Weyoun let out a few more giggles, making a show of wiping the tears from his eyes and trying to get back to the matter at hand. “Specifically what about me is  _ aesthetically pleasing?  _ Or…” he paused, trying to keep down another snort of laughter,  _ “interesting to look at?”  _

“Oh, shut up,” Damar mumbled, and his scales were tinged a dark blue color, the same way they were whenever he drank too much kanar or Weyoun embarrassed him in front of someone important. 

“No, please, Damar, I really do want to know. What about me is attractive?” Weyoun leaned forward in his chair, trying to gauge his reaction. This didn’t seem to have any effect on Damar so he slid off his chair, scooting around the coffee table to kneel directly in front of him, tilting his head as he waited for an answer. “Feel free to examine my physical features and give me feedback.” Like he was asking for constructive criticism on a business proposal instead of kneeling in front of the man he was in love with, asking him to tell him he was pretty. 

Damar blinked at him. Weyoun blinked back, tilting his head the other way like a confused puppy. Like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. 

“Stop that, “ Damar said after several seconds of seemingly shocked silence. 

“Stop what?” Weyoun asked innocently. 

“Tilting your head like that. You look like a wompat.”

Weyoun straightened his head. “Is that not an attractive feature?” 

“It’s distracting.”

“Hm.”

They stared at each other in silence, Weyoun feeling the constant urge to fidget but managing to keep himself still. 

“I like your eyes,” Damar finally said, and a small smile formed on Weyoun’s face, barely noticeable. 

“The color or the shape?” Weyoun asked. 

“The color.” Damar shrugged. “But both, I suppose.”

“What about-”

“I like your ears,” Damar interrupted, and Weyoun closed his mouth, resisting the urge to tilt his head again. Damar leaned forward, reaching out a hand, so close to touching Weyoun’s face, before he hesitated. “Can I-”

“Why do you think I came over here?” Weyoun let out a light breath, trying not to let it show how fast his heart was beating. “I told you to examine my physical features, didn’t I?”

That seemed to be all the confirmation Damar needed, because his hands were on either side of Weyoun’s jaw bone nearly a second later, brushing lightly against his skin. His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. Damar’s fingers were cold, but it wasn’t disturbing. It was actually quite a pleasing sensation. 

His fingers moved up Weyoun’s jawbone, trailing up to his ears, running against the ridges lightly, like he was afraid of hurting him. When Weyoun didn’t have any complaints, he seemed content to increase pressure, almost like he was petting him. As his fingers traveled slowly up and down Weyoun’s ears, Weyoun let out a noise that could really only be described as a purr. It was a quiet, completely subconscious noise not dissimilar to the sound a tribble might make.

“What-” Damar began.

Weyoun blinked his eyes open, trying to glare at him. “Shut up.” 

“I will not.” Damar repeated the motion, and Weyoun again purred quietly, only Damar continued the movement of his fingers against the back of Weyoun’s ears for several seconds longer, and the sound dragged on until he stopped. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.” 

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Weyoun repeated more forcefully, although it probably sounded more whiny than anything. He cringed. This was  _ not  _ the way he’d been planning for this to go. He needed to get the situation back in his control before Damar started laughing at him. He leaned forward, bringing his hands up and settling them on Damar’s thighs, pushing himself up on his knees. He pushed Damar’s legs apart, settling himself in between them, watching as Damar’s scales once again darkened as he opened his mouth several times despite no words coming out. 

“What. Are you doing?” He asked, his hands slowly removing themselves from Weyoun’s ears. 

He had control back. And thank the Gods for that. He smiled softly, pushing away the feelings of discomfort—not due to being touched so tenderly, but the fact that he had  _ enjoyed  _ being touched so tenderly, he’d wanted Damar to keep doing that until he melted into a puddle of very happy goo.  _ That  _ made him uncomfortable.  _ That  _ was dangerous.

“What do you want me to be doing?” Weyoun asked, flipping the question. He moved one hand slowly up Damar’s thigh, then back down again. 

“I don’t…” Damar began, and Weyoun was afraid that perhaps he’d misread all the signals, screwed up somehow, and he nearly backed away, already coming up with explanations for his behavior that was apparently unwelcome. Then Damar’s hands were back on his face, one hand cupping his chin and the other brushing through the fluffy hair behind his ear. “Are you trying to get something from me?” He asked, his voice soft.

Weyoun, completely subconsciously, pushed against Damar’s hands, wanting to feel them running across his face again, before he even bothered trying to understand the question.

“What do you have that I could possibly want?” He asked, managing to keep his voice steady even as his knees shook every time Damar’s finger so much as twitched against his skin.

“Clearly, I have  _ something,”  _ Damar said, a smirk on his face. 

Weyoun matched his smirk, looking up at him through his eyelashes the way he knew always got him what he wanted. “And do  _ I _ have something  _ you  _ want?” 

He didn’t think it had ever taken this long before, to get someone into bed with him. It was almost like Damar was hesitant to do so—clearly not because he didn’t want Weyoun, his want was obvious now, by the way he was touching him, the darkening of his scales, the tone he spoke in. But for some reason he wasn’t  _ taking  _ Weyoun. It was frustrating.

“Yes,” Damar breathed, and Weyoun was sure he’d won. Any second now, Damar would  _ take  _ him and they would do all those things Weyoun had never really enjoyed doing before, and this time it would mean something. This time he would understand it.

Except Damar didn’t. Weyoun blinked confusedly, waiting. And waiting. It wasn’t coming. Perhaps Damar wanted him to initiate it? To make sure it was what Weyoun wanted? How sweet of him. Weyoun felt grateful this was the person he’d decided to fall in love with. 

“Would you like to continue our activities here or relocate to your bed? I suppose it depends on what you’d like, although, the bed would probably be better in any case because it would provide more room for-” Damar abruptly stopped Weyoun’s sales pitch by placing a hand over his mouth, very briefly, before removing it. He was shaking his head. 

“What-” he began, his hands leaving Damar’s thighs as he searched his expression in confusion.

“Weyoun, no. This isn’t-” He stopped, like he had something important to say but bit it back at the last second. “I don’t want this. Not like this.”

_ Not like this.  _ The sentence repeated itself inside Weyoun’s head, flipping over and rearranging words and letters, but it didn’t help him make sense of them. Clearly, Weyoun had done something wrong, but he had no clue  _ what. _

“You need to leave,” Damar said, turning his head to look away from Weyoun, like he couldn’t look at him.

“Damar-” he began, standing and reaching out to touch his hand, unsure why things suddenly seemed to be very wrong. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. 

“Weyoun, leave. Please.”

So he did, he pulled back and practically ran out the room, leaving Damar sitting in the chair, not looking at him, a million different thoughts echoed in his eyes that he refused to let Weyoun see.

It made sense. Damar didn’t trust him, he couldn’t. He didn’t even  _ like  _ Weyoun; he pitied him at best.  _ Not like this.  _ Not when Weyoun was offering himself up like a pathetic  _ whore  _ without a modicum of self respect. What had he been thinking?

They never spoke about it again, but that night was one Weyoun Six would often think back on. It was almost enough to make him stay, just in case one day Damar wanted to try again. Almost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun is an idiot who does not understand social dynamics but u know what we can’t blame him because Damar is an idiot of equal measure who hates himself too much to believe that anyone could care about him, so he Pretends He Does Not See It.  
> Also Weyoun, sweetie, darling, I know I wrote you like this but please read some articles about the importance of mutual consent and enjoyment of intimacy, because your warped notions of sex are scaring off the hoes (Damar)


	8. I'm Always Somewhere In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! it's Ziyal time! Ziyal's here, everybody! She's here and she's a lesbian! Which is absolutely not relevant and never mentioned but it's important to me that everyone knows she's a lesbian.

Weyoun and the rest of the team beamed down food replicators and medical supplies to Damar’s base, and before beaming down themselves, and, just as Weyoun had promised, there was Ziyal, ready to greet them.

Kira let out an audible gasp at the sight of her, and Garak’s eyes widened to a degree that was, quite frankly, alarming. 

“Nerys!” She ran a few steps forward and nearly toppled over Kira with the force of her hug. 

“And Mr. Garak!” While still wrapped around Kira in the same way a small child might hide herself in the safety of her mother, she extended her hand to Garak and they touched palms, a ritual Weyoun had seen other Cardassians engage in. He supposed it had the equivalency of a humanoid hug.

“Ziyal,” Kira said as she pulled out of the hug long enough to look at Ziyal’s face, examining her like she couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of her.

“I'm sorry I couldn’t tell you I was alive, but there wasn’t time, and my father wanted to have me killed for helping you escape, I had to stay hidden, Damar was concerned he’d come back for me if he knew I was still alive,” Ziyal said, all rather quickly, like she was trying to take as few breaths as possible.

“I know,” Kira said, “Weyoun told us.” She cupped Ziyal’s face gently, her smile widening. “Not that I believed him, of course.” 

Ziyal smiled, then turned, glancing around until she located Weyoun. She leapt towards him, making him jump. She wrapped him into a brief hug before pulling away after giving him a light kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said, and Weyoun wasn’t sure if that was in reference to his arrival to reunite with her and Damar, or to the fact that he wasn’t Weyoun Seven, who had been nothing but terrible to her. 

“It’s good to be back,” Weyoun said, a phrase he’d heard humans use during his time on DS9. 

Ziyal and another Cardassian Weyoun didn’t recognize lead them through the caves and into an open area humming with the noise of electricity. He began physically vibrating when he heard Damar’s voice, he couldn’t quite make out what he said, but it was him. They turned a corner and Weyoun almost had to grab onto a wall to restrain himself from jumping into Damar’s arms and promising to never leave him again. 

He did not do that, in fact, he didn’t even look Damar in the eyes. He glanced at him before looking away again, staying in the back of the group, eyes downcast, as Kira began a conversation with him. Damar’s second in command said something racist to her, to which Kira responded with a veiled threat hidden under a veneer of the utmost delicacy and class. Weyoun couldn’t help but admire her composure, even as her eyes flashed in anger. 

They spoke of Ziyal, of the plans of the resistance group, Kira gave instructions on how to better equip them to fight in this way, and all the while, Weyoun stood in the background, feeling quite useless. 

He wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t even a strategist. His most recent clones had been given more skill in regards to war tactics, but it still wasn’t his strongest skill. He was a  _ diplomat,  _ he was supposed to be in peace treaty negotiations or establishing first contact with new species, making trade deals, that sort of thing. He’d been brilliant at negotiating that agreement with the Breen.

Not that the agreement with the Breen was something that’d help him now. He didn’t think much of anything would help him now, to be frank. 

Garak was leaving, going somewhere with his large bag of sewing supplies and discussing station changes with Ziyal, and Kira was examining the plans of the resistance cell with the help of that obnoxious Cardassian whose name had fallen out of Weyoun’s brain as soon as he’d heard it. He wasn’t sure where Odo had gone or when, but Weyoun was now alone with Damar.

He looked up, making eye contact with Damar for the first time. He didn’t know what to say. If there even was anything to say to him. They stared at each other, and Weyoun wondered if he was doing the head tilt thing without realizing, because Damar had the smallest smile on his face, one Weyoun recognized as  _ that smile Damar saved for when Weyoun was doing something he’d categorize as ‘cute’.  _ He chose to ignore it.

Weyoun hadn’t come here for Damar. Of course, yes, he had offered to join the group on their mission, and yes he had done this after learning he’d be able to see Damar, but that hadn’t been  _ for  _ Damar. 

Although there was that mental breakdown in Sisko’s quarters to think of. As Weyoun recalled it, his exact words had been ‘ _ I don’t want to go back for me, I want to go back for him.’  _

Hm. Perhaps he had come here for Damar. 

He’d also said ‘ _ I want to be with him’.  _ Doctor Bashir’s words about love washed over him again. Weyoun regretted not asking him if there was perhaps a cure to prevent those annoying intrusive love thoughts. 

Despite knowing how easy it would be to march up to Damar and proclaim his feelings of love in a way even Weyoun Six had been too cowardly to do, he didn’t. Perhaps it was instinct, knowing this wasn’t the place for it. Either of them could die at any moment. Damar had better things to worry about.

And, as much as Weyoun would like to think it had, helping Damar let Ezri and Worf escape from their execution hadn’t made up for the millions of Cardassian deaths Weyoun Seven had caused.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Damar never forgave him, never trusted him. It would be what he deserved, after all.

Weyoun and Damar stared at each other in that dim and far-too-warm cave, and Weyoun wondered if Damar was having as much trouble figuring out what to say as he was. 

“Weyoun! It’s good to see you again,” Damar said, breaking the silence that had settled over them like dust. He clapped a heavy hand on Weyoun’s shoulder and he shook under it. Not for any particular reason that he could come up with; it seemed to have been involuntary. 

“Is it?” Weyoun questioned, before the words even had time to rattle around in his brain for a second. 

“Of course. It’s been boring not having you around, there’s no one to undermine me in front of my own officers and question my every order and suggestion.”

Oh. That was a fair statement. Weyoun shouldn’t be as hurt by it as he was. Unfortunately, as it stood, he was hurt by it. He couldn’t tell if Damar’s comment was sarcastic or not. He pulled himself away from Damar’s touch and took a step back, as much as he didn’t want to. 

“We have work to do,” Weyoun said abruptly, turning away and joining Kira at the monitors, hoping to find some way to be of help.

Not to oversell himself, but Weyoun had been right about Major Kira. She was clever, composed, tough, and perfect for the job of directing Damar’s resistance cell, just as he thought she’d be. The other Cardassians didn’t seem to agree, but Damar gave them an angry glare, one which Weyoun was all too familiar with, whenever they began questioning her tactics. 

“Garak and Weyoun have been working together and came up with a list of Dominion facilities that are vulnerable,” Kira said, and Weyoun looked down when he felt eyes on him.

When he looked back up again, even more eyes were on him. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the usual courage he seemed to always have when discussing these types of matters.

“The… weapons depot on Ardarak Prime is, as far as my knowledge goes, protected by a single garrison, and I know of a weakness in their perimeter defenses.” He knew because he’d pointed it out to the Founder once and she’d dismissed him immediately. “A small group could infiltrate and disable—”

The racist Cardassian (Weyoun still hadn’t retained his name) interrupted him. “Ardarak Prime is protected by a Cardassian garrison.”

“That is correct,” Weyoun said, trying to retain his composure. 

“You expect us to attack our own people?”

Weyoun blinked once, his eyes wide and owlish. He blinked again, clearing his throat. “My apologies,” he said, his tone darkening, “would you mind repeating that? It sounded as if you were telling  _ me,  _ a Vorta, that  _ you  _ wouldn’t attack your own people.  _ Me,  _ a  _ Vorta,  _ who sacrificed my entire  _ life’s meaning  _ to be here with you reptilian, hypocritical, self centered, egomaniacal,  _ bastards,”  _ he seethed, and it wasn’t often Weyoun’s anger bubbled up and reached the surface, but it seemed to have been happening more and more lately. He took half a step forward, content with  _ ripping out this smug piece of shit’s eyes,  _ but was stopped by a hand on his arm. It was Kira. He tugged once to free his arm, but she held it fast, her grip like a vice. 

The adrenaline pumping through Weyoun’s body wore off as fast as it had arrived and he took a deep breath, composing himself. 

“Apologies for my outburst,” he muttered, and Kira mercifully released her grip on his arm. He stepped back again. 

“Weyoun is right,” she said, turning back to address the Cardassians. “And if you do avoid Cardassian bases, as soon as the Dominion realizes you won’t attack facilities with Cardassian guards, they’ll station a Cardassian at every base they have. The Founders won’t hesitate to use your own people against you.”

Damar seemed to consider it, then turned back to Weyoun. “You were saying Ardarak’s defenses were vulnerable.”

Weyoun looked up to meet Damar’s eyes. His gaze was professional, unemotional, if he’d reacted at all to Weyoun’s outburst, he didn’t show it. Damar’s eyes for some reason served to bring Weyoun’s confidence back, and he nodded, turning back to the monitor behind him.

“We will need to disable the garrison’s security protocols,” he said, and Damar’s face schooled into a frown.

_ “We?”  _ He asked.  _ “You  _ shouldn’t be going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry?”

Major Kira interrupted, addressing Weyoun. “You’re our biggest advantage, you aren’t going anywhere if someone from the Dominion might see you and report back to the Founders. They’d change all their security protocols, passwords, and tactics if they knew we had all that information.”

She probably hadn’t meant that to sound the way it came across, but Weyoun was used to being treated like a thing. An  _ advantage,  _ a  _ tool,  _ a disposable object. That was the first way his brain chose to interpret her words. He pursed his lips, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

In past lives, his natural response to being treated like an object was quiet submission and an aching feeling of emptiness. In this life, his instinct seemed to be the same as it was for many other things; anger and frustration.

“Of course. You wouldn’t want your best weapon going off too early,” he said, in a much more bitter tone than was warranted before stomping away to the section of the cave that had been reserved for sleeping quarters and sinking into an abandoned corner behind a pile of supply crates.

Blissfully, he was left alone. He supposed Garak was discussing how they would disable the security protocols, it would be a long time before anyone came in. He was grateful for that, happy to be left alone to his immature sulking.

He was disturbed, albeit by the last person he wanted to be disturbed by, in fact, he was content with never seeing Damar’s  _ stupid  _ face ever again (probably not, he was exaggerating), but here he was nevertheless.

“I half expected to find you hidden under one of the bunks,” Damar said in greeting, to which Weyoun responded by burying himself further into the corner, wishing he was even smaller than he was and that he could just vanish into thin air, sinking into the walls. 

Damar crouched down in front of him. “What happened?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, the same tone he would use when Weyoun Six would come to him in pain, he hadn’t heard him use that tone in so long. 

It made him look up, tears streaming down his face that he didn’t even register as he stared at Damar desperately, his hands shaking even as he wrapped them around himself and squeezed his sides tightly. “What’s  _ happening  _ to me?” He asked, the panic in his voice even evident to him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Damar, to his credit, did not leave the conversation and run away. Instead, he moved cautiously closer, close enough to touch Weyoun, but made no attempt to reach out towards him. 

“What do you mean?” 

Weyoun took a long breath, holding it in to calm himself down, then letting it out all at once like he was trying to expel the feelings from his head.

“Why do I feel like…” he waved his hand vaguely, nearly smacking Damar in the face as he did so, “I feel like that android,” he said, thinking of that conversation he’d had with Keiko. 

Of course, Damar had no clue what the hell Weyoun was talking about, but he was polite enough not to ask, to instead wait for Weyoun to explain himself. 

“I’m not supposed to be like this,” he said, taking another deep breath and hating the way his voice shook. “When people speak to me— or about me, like I’m an object, it shouldn’t  _ bother  _ me. Why is it bothering me?”

“Perhaps because you aren’t an object,” Damar responded, and Weyoun had been expecting that answer.

“But I was  _ supposed  _ to be.”

“I was  _ supposed  _ to kill Ziyal. I was  _ supposed  _ to hate the Bajorans, obey the Dominion, marry a woman, and have four to nine children. And look how that turned out.”

“It’s not the same,” Weyoun muttered, turning away from him and burying his face in his knees. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment, “this isn’t important right now.”

Damar stared at him, like he wanted to say something else, like he had a reason for following Weyoun into this room in the first place that wasn’t to bask in his pain. Perhaps he saw something in Weyoun, something he’d seen on that night that felt so long ago (and maybe it was, two lives ago was a long time, however short those lives were). Something that had prompted him to call Weyoun attractive _ ,  _ to touch him so tenderly, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

But then he was closed off again, just like that night. He knew Damar didn’t trust him, and yet he had to keep reminding himself of that fact. The frustrating thing was that everyone else seemed to think he did, Ezri had insisted Damar cared about him, that had been his reason for sending him to DS9, even Captain Sisko seemed to think Damar held some sort of affection for Weyoun.

Perhaps Weyoun was the only one who didn’t see it. Or perhaps Weyoun was the one who  _ did  _ see it, who understood that Damar didn’t like him. Damar felt pity and nothing more, because he  _ couldn’t  _ care about Weyoun, couldn’t care about someone who’d killed his people and tried to occupy his world, someone who was fundamentally untrustworthy.

Weyoun hated feeling pitied. He knew he was weak, that he was fragile and breakable and he  _ hated  _ it so he hid it under arrogance and pride, but Damar saw through that. He looked right through Weyoun’s false sense of superiority and pushed it away, leaving Weyoun once again frail and small. A thing to be pitied, but not trusted, never loved. 

He decided right then that there was no worse feeling than being pitied by someone you loved. He couldn’t stand the look in Damar’s eyes as he sighed and turned away, leaving Weyoun alone again. 

_I shouldn’t be here_ echoed in his mind. He’d never felt like he didn’t belong before. It felt wrong. He hadn’t belonged on DS9, he’d come back to Damar in some feeble attempt to rekindle the dead sliver of a friendship Weyoun Six had with Damar, but he didn’t belong here either. He wasn’t Weyoun Six and his relationship with Damar was too complicated and strained to ever be the same as it was. 


	9. I Try To Make Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> um haaaiiii <3 so this chapter is once again _mostly_ flashback/introspection. like, there's literally no dialogue in this chapter. also it deals a lot with psychological torture, because the founders were like 'eh Weyoun is still a rebellious thot, even after physical torture, so this time we'll go for psychological. it cant miss!' and then it did.

Weyoun Seven was activated to track down his renegade predecessor, and he was, both objectively and subjectively, awful. He was similar to Weyoun Five, but much more vicious. Almost too vicious for a Vorta. Damar couldn’t even keep him in check. He was cruel for the sake of cruelty, finding it entertaining to anger Damar, who went out of his way to avoid him at any cost. 

They never spoke about Six after they’d tracked him down and he activated his termination implant. Not because Weyoun Seven was embarrassed about one of his predecessors being defective, as far as he was concerned, Six had about as much connection to him as any other Vorta; which was to say, none. The acknowledgement of what had happened between Damar and Six was whenever Seven had made that tasteless joke about bringing him back to be Damar’s toy. Damar had nearly snapped his neck for saying it, knocking him on the ground and choking him until he passed out. 

Death threats were common between them, they hated each other, and Weyoun Seven often wondered what Damar saw when he looked at him.

Did he see a reflection of the Vorta who had disgraced himself and the Founders by kneeling to Damar and begging for his attention? It may have been one moment, but Seven knew what Weyoun Six’s thoughts had been. He wondered if Damar thought the same things. Perhaps that was why he tried to avoid eye contact, to keep that echo of the kind, weak, _traitor_ in his mind. It was ridiculous to imagine any clone of himself _ever_ being so easily swayed. To betray the Founders was an unforgivable crime all on its own, but to believe there was a life of fulfillment outside of their Plan? It was disgraceful.

He distanced himself from Weyoun Six, doing everything he could to prove he was the opposite of what Six had done to sully his name. When the Founder would beat him, change shapes and morph her arms into weapons to cause more and more pain, he knew he deserved it for what Six had done. He didn’t want to go to Damar anymore, so he went to his own quarters and healed himself, then continued about his day as if nothing had happened. 

As if he wasn’t living every day with the horrible fear that everyone would turn on him and declare him a traitor. As if he didn’t sit up in bed at night and run his fingers against his deactivation switch, remembering the pain like he was experiencing it in real time. As if, on the rare nights when he did get to sleep, he didn’t cry himself to sleep curled in a ball on the edge of his bed for being a disappointment to the Founders, for being defective, disobeying them. 

He didn’t want to die. If Weyoun wanted to die, he would declare himself defective and activate his termination implant. He wanted to continue serving the Founders, he wanted to stop disappointing them. He wanted Damar to suffer an agonizing death—he had no idea why Damar’s torture was on the top of his list, but it was. Every time he saw Damar there was a palpable tension between them, one wrong move from either of them and someone would end up in pieces on the floor. Weyoun knew why Damar hated him; because of what he’d done with Six, because of the way he’d treated Damar, because he wasn’t  _ anything at all  _ like Weyoun Six, the list went on and on. But why Weyoun himself hated Damar was a mystery. 

Perhaps it was an effect of the overhaul of his genetics when he’d been cloned again. Everything Weyoun Seven felt was the opposite of what Six felt.

That meant that Weyoun Six had been in love with Damar, in love enough that the opposite emotion, according to his genetic coding at least, was a hatred more powerful than anything Weyoun had felt before. 

He would find the idea fascinating if he wasn’t repulsed by the mere thought that any iteration of him could ever be in love with anyone, let alone Damar. As it was, he didn’t think about it. He thought about nothing but the Founders, their glorious Plan, and did everything in his power to please them. And ignored those lingering thoughts of anger, pain, and confusion that sunk into him late at night.

Weyoun Seven, for lack of any better way to put the phrase, got off on Damar’s subservience to him. It wasn’t  _ exactly  _ sexual, and had Seven stopped to think about his actions towards Damar, he might be rather disgusted with himself. But he enjoyed being in charge of someone, watching Damar glare at him and look away, begin to protest when ordered to do something he believed below him before trailing off if Weyoun so much as looked at him or held up a finger. 

He could analyze this behavior. Perhaps it was a buried need to feel as though he had power in a life (or lives) that took  _ everything  _ from him. And seeing someone with so much pride bow to his every whim was so very… gratifying. 

Weyoun supposed it was blasphemous, he was a servant of the Dominion, and servants don’t have their own servants, but really, who was it hurting? Other than Damar, that is. And after lifetimes and hundreds of years of groveling and bowing and being presented like an object to anyone that pleased the Founders, being used and owned and controlled, it was nice to reverse it once in a while. Of course it wasn’t the same, it could never be the same. Seven would never go so far as to elevate himself to the level of the Founders, and he was aware Damar didn’t respect him, worship him, or anything of the sort.

But it was something. 

And that something was enough to make the days of physical and emotional abuse from his Gods just tolerable enough not to activate his termination implant.

Damar seemed to understand that, to an extent. That sickened Weyoun. Damar  _ pitied  _ him. He felt bad about the way Weyoun was treated, he felt  _ pity _ over the fact that Weyoun resorted to ordering him around just to get himself through the days, and that made Weyoun hate him more.

Whether Damar ever wondered what the hell had been done to Weyoun Seven to make him behave the way he did, Weyoun had no idea. As Seven, he hadn’t thought too much about it. The memories had still been buried too well. But Weyoun Eight remembered what had happened. 

They’d broken him.

He remembered it now. 

Weyoun Seven’s violence and cruelty hadn’t been a fluke, a one-off problem in the cloning facility due to the rush and distraction of the war. He’d been the direct result of months of torture in the cloning facility. 

They’d taken the memories from him, buried them so deeply in his subconscious it was painful to recall them, but they’d tried to  _ change  _ him. 

Something about Weyoun had been… wrong. He always knew he was treated differently from the rest of the Vorta, but he’d never questioned it. At least, not anymore than he questioned why he couldn’t play an instrument or enjoy artwork. Weyoun Five had been a disappointment, perhaps they’d thought his little rebellions had been stamped out, but they hadn’t. So they’d moved to different measures, different tactics. 

He remembered being alone in that room for months on end. Seven must’ve been activated at the same time as Weyoun Six, to provide more time for him to break. During the time he’d been in that little white room, just big enough for him to lie down flat and extend his arms without hitting the wall on both sides, he’d seen no one. In fact, he’d seen nothing. He couldn’t even see his own shadow. 

It was like he was losing his mind, because he  _ knew  _ he had a shadow, he just couldn’t  _ see  _ it, like he  _ knew  _ that someone was bringing him plates of colorless food twice a day on colorless plates, even though he never saw them. Some days, he would repeatedly slam himself against the walls, over and over again, because he couldn’t  _ see  _ the walls. It was all white. It was the same color as the ceiling, the floor, it had that same sense of absolute nothingness, and some days he convinced himself the room went on forever, he was pretending the wall was there. He would collapse on the floor and scream himself hoarse, and when he lost his voice, the only sound he heard was his own ragged breathing and frantic heartbeat. 

As much as he strained his ears, he never heard voices, footsteps, anything. Not even when his food was brought. It was pushed into his room from an invisible slot in the nonexistent wall. For a horrifying time, he thought perhaps he might be deaf. He might be deaf and blind, but then he’d look down and see his body, he’d listen hard enough and hear his breathing.

And he realized that no, he wasn’t blind or deaf. He was just the only person in the universe.

That little room became the entire universe, and Weyoun became nothing but a speck of dust within it. Not even a speck of dust. It was like he didn’t even exist. He couldn’t make a dent or a scratch in the walls, whenever he would throw his food at the wall, break the bowl, attempt to grab at the broken shards, they would vanish. Maybe they were never even there. 

Time didn’t exist in the room, he would try counting the seconds and find himself repeating the same number over and over again. The highest he ever counted to before his brain shut down was one thousand and ninety-seven. Once he reached that number, his mind kept repeating it over and over again, never counting any higher, just saying the number repeatedly. Until he realized what he’d been doing and he would start all over again. 

Vorta weren’t supposed to dream, usually. Or at least, they rarely remembered their dreams once they woke up. Weyoun wasn’t sure if that was a result of their genetic recoding or if it was normal, evolutionary behavior. Either way, Weyoun didn’t remember dreaming of anything but the white room while he slept. He would fall asleep on the floor and dream of being trapped, and not even his dreams had color. When he woke up, he was still in the room. 

It hadn’t even worked. 

It was like this torture had been nothing but an experiment, to see what would happen if they left a Vorta alone for months and deprived him of  _ everything,  _ then erased his memory of it ever ocurring.

Evidently, it made him sadistic, cruel, and vicious. It made him question the Founders, he’d even tried to  _ kill  _ one, no matter how he’d tried to justify it as Odo not considering himself a Founder. 

Weyoun Seven was a failed experiment, they should’ve terminated him as soon as that was made obvious, but instead they kept him around. Like he was interesting. Like he was an example to look at,  _ here’s what we don’t want to happen. _

Weyoun Eight should’ve been like Weyoun Five, still with his subtle wishes and rebellions, but loyal and unquestioning overall. 

Only… he wasn’t. Not at all.

The thing about psychological torture, Weyoun realized, was that it stayed with you. It was something that affected and reordered your brain chemistry permanently. 

And it did. As soon as he’d been cloned, he’d felt different, and when he began adjusting over the days, past lives sorting themselves into place and whatnot, he could tell something was wrong, something was not the same.

Because he saw things differently, he felt things differently. Bright lights hurt his eyes and he flinched in front of the Founder. His uniform had too many colors and patterns on it and everyone on DS9 talked too loud. The Promenade was too open and too closed at the same time. He would lose focus on simple tasks for minutes and even hours at a time, and when he came back to himself, he would realize he’d been staring into space for half the day without even realizing. Textures on clothes were fascinating to him, as if he’d spent a lifetime away from the texture of fabric and was only now discovering it. 

He remembered why, now. 

They’d broken him. 

They’d broken him and they hadn’t even broken him the way they’d wanted, so they’d tried to patch him back together again, but it’d been too messy. He’d still seen the cracks. 

They’d broken him and that little voice in his head that told him he was a  _ slave,  _ that he would do anything for the Founders not because he  _ wanted to  _ but because he was  _ forced to  _ by the way they created him, got louder. It was almost deafening. 

It was an intense, burning hatred and  _ anger  _ and Weyoun didn’t know if he’d ever felt anger before. Not like this. His world was ripped right out from under him in that moment of realization, when he was left alone as the Cardassian resistance cell was off on their first mission with Major Kira’s help. 

All of his beliefs were flipped on their head, spun inside-out, and shaken around, then dropped unceremoniously back into Weyoun’s consciousness, and he didn’t know how to reorganize them. 

Put them back into those neat little rows. He could still go back.

They’d broken him.

Compartmentalize it.

Worship the Founders. It wasn’t hard. All he had to do was do what he was told. He could still go back. Beg forgiveness.

Weyoun had never been good at begging. He’d never been good at doing what he was told, either. 

Reorganize some things. Push some memories to the back. Throw those feelings in the trash. It’s just like tidying up a room. Everything has its place. Put it all back where it belongs. In the places in his mind the Founders had created for keeping emotions out of his life. For keeping a personality and an identity and a concept of self out of his life. For keeping a _life_ out of his life.

He didn’t like the war, but it wasn’t his place to question it. 

He’d fallen in love with a Cardassian who defected and  _ should  _ be his enemy, but it wasn’t his place to have those sorts of feelings. 

The Founders terrified him, and they  _ should,  _ they were  _ Gods  _ and he should be afraid of the Gods who’d created him. Who could take it all away from him and had. Many times. 

He could still go back.

Leaving without a soul noticing, sneaking away into thin air and going back to what he was supposed to be doing, what he was meant to do. 

Except he didn’t move, because those two sentences,  _ he could still go back  _ and  _ they’d broken him _ couldn’t coexist. He was incapable of pushing the realization that he was nothing but a failed experiment to the Founders to the back of his mind in a file he’d never look at. 

And he couldn’t move, so he didn’t. 

And he couldn’t still go back,  _ because  _ they’d broken him. Because everything Weyoun had ever wished for, everything he’d ever wanted, he’d already been capable of. 

Aesthetic appreciation and emotions weren’t something you could just  _ not  _ be born with. Weyoun experienced them differently. He experienced them the way he did because he was a Vorta, and he’d been brainwashed into thinking that processing things in a way other than most humanoids did meant he  _ couldn’t  _ process them at all. 

But he could. It had just been suppressed. 

They’d tried to eliminate it. 

They’d tried to eliminate  _ him  _ and all the other Vorta, even all the Jem’Hadar. The Founders had tried to remove their individuality, and when it hadn’t worked the way they wanted it to, they’d gone to different methods. The different methods had backfired, and now this was the situation Weyoun was in. 

Alone in an underground cave, feeling useless to both sides of the war, recalling memories of torture he doubted anyone would ever believe or be able to prove, and hated by anyone he ever managed to care about. 

His fingers, almost involuntarily, made their way to the back of his neck, feeling the small indentation in his skin where Doctor Bashir had removed his termination implant. Weyoun didn’t want to die, not really. He’d never considered dying before, a permanent state of nonexistence. It wasn’t something most Vorta worried about. It was so rare lines of clones were disposed of, and that was the only way permanent death could ever occur. 

Now, however, it was real. Weyoun had been alive for over a thousand years, and he was content with being the  _ last  _ of his line. But he wasn’t content with that  _ last  _ happening so quickly. 

His hand shifted away from his neck and he instead chose to reach for a Padd sitting to his side, choosing to look through the security of several of the Dominion’s most well-protected bases. He had things to do, and perhaps it was sacreligious and blasphemous and all those other  _ lovely  _ words, but he wanted revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no so) fun fact: the type of torture used on Weyoun is a form of what’s called white room torture. It’s explicitly banned by the Geneva Convention (not that the founders or starfleet obeys the geneva convention) and it’s essentially a way to make someone lose all sense of their personal identity over a long period of time. They put neon tube lighting on the ceiling and floor to prevent the prisoner from seeing their own shadow, the cells are soundproofed, they only get to eat unseasoned, white foods like potatoes or rice, and all the surfaces of the walls and floor are smooth so you can’t even feel textures.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kaijuvenom)   
>  [Tumblr](https://kaijuvenom.tumblr.com/)   
> 


End file.
